I watch the seasons come and go through the glass of a sawmill window. Summer burns to Fall, then Winter freezes all, and the cold gets in your bones so deep you think that it might never leave. As the snowflakes and the sawdust drift, so too do my thoughts accumulate and shift. The physical demands and toil of my hands create solitude within, and dirt stains on my skin. I never thought I'd be this tired. I never thought it was required of me. How could I be so naive? "What is man but a mass of thawing clay?" That's what Henry David Thoreau would say. If it's true then this work molded me into a man, but the thought of staying in one place for too long is something I can't stand. The older men say it's the American way to spend more than you earn, but I think I disagree, I mean it doesn't have to be. Will any of us ever learn?
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