It was the feeling of being a mote of dust in a world too large for such a thing to matter. He knew it was coming. It was familiar in a way that he wished it hadn’t been, but he could feel it’s approach hours before. He knew the signs, he could sense its arrival and prepare the best he could. Still, remembering the feeling was a pale shade of the actual experience.
In better times, in happier moods, he felt that he could do almost anything with enough effort and enough passion. Nothing was out of reach if he wanted it badly enough. The world was small and lithe and would bend to his will.
Now, though, had gravity increased. What was supple turned brittle. His ideas were like sandcastles; impossible to move without crumbling.
It was times like this where he could step outside of himself, for a brief moment, and look at what he was. He knew what he was feeling wasn’t real. Nothing had changed in the world except for his outlook. His internal works. For that moment, he felt the hope that this feeling would pass as soon as it had arrived.
But the moment would always end too soon. There were no shortcuts in outrunning the shadow. It would take effort that he currently couldn’t summon.
The world refused to shrink down to a manageable size, so he did the only thing he knew to do.