Again

Every week, the man went to work, then church, then home again.

Month after month. Year after year.

Routine ruled his life.

At work, his boss pushed him harder—quarterly goals, quiet threats, numbers that never felt enough. The paycheck stayed the same. The pressure didn’t.

He came home drained.

Dinner hummed in the microwave. The TV flickered to life. His thumb dragged endlessly across his phone—AI-generated headlines, disasters on repeat, outrage packaged and refreshed. Time blurred. Most nights, sleep caught him before the shower did.

Morning came, and nothing changed. More demands. Same pay. Same weight pressing down on him.

He remembered when he used to dream. Back when the world felt wide, before it narrowed into schedules and expectations. Back when possibility didn’t feel like a lie.

At church, they told him to pray. They told him to endure. They told him heaven was waiting. But only after death. And some nights, that didn’t sound like hope. It sounded like relief.

So he went home, sat in front of the TV, and scrolled.

And scrolled.

And scrolled.

Until the boy he once was—the one who dreamed without limits—

felt like someone he had only imagined.