Sunday

It’s a Sunday evening in May, sunshine, warm, everything.

I should be outside having the officially okeyed three half-beers, and be totally glad about being alive.

Instead, as You may have aforethought, I’m kind of bothered.

And it would even be indecent to directly write about the immediate cause for this; thus I have to circumambulate the problem.

It is one, as You may have anticipated, of truthfulness, of loyalty.

Therewith it is also a story of might and weakness.

Of betrayal that is brought about without the traitor being aware of his deeds.

On the contrary, the traitor himself deems to be loyal in the very treason he commits.

(Sorry that I forgot h e r, languagewise.)

He is a very respectable, respected person; he would never dream of even being able to do anything wrong.

That’s exactly why the man got to where he is now.

Upper middle class, fine wife, fine kids, fine house, fine car, fine job.

Nothing could be finer on earth, were it not for all the overtime hours.

Even modern white collar slavery takes its toll.

Every day his wife may stroll off with the toddlers, claiming all the cash in the world, calling him a father who has never had time for his family and an overall asshole, and he’ll suddenly be lost.

She can definitely do so every day, encouraged by everyone.

So he may finally become the asshole he always was, but never thought he was, and even less dreamt of being identified as such.

That’s one way people who work for the winners regularly get lost when they get lost.

Not understanding one dot why.

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