He was far from alone. There were people on the side of the road and vehicles passing. But he was a solitary soul amidst all that, engrossed in his thoughts as he plodded along.
Somehow he was really by himself. He alone felt his pains - the one that gnaws at his lower back every single day, the one that pinches his knee once in every single while - and he alone suffered through them. People watch and awe at what he's doing. They have no idea he's dying. His breath was labored, his heart was pounding, but his face showed no trace. He has taught himself to hide all the discomfort. He just looked straight ahead, appearing all consumed by what his doing, focused on his business and on not much else.
No one else knew his frustrations in life, in work, with people - being ignored, unappreciated, unnoticed except when something is needed from him. He was dying, he was dying inside and nobody knew, nobody would understand. He kept them all to himself, drowning them in the discomfort he felt. Yes, somehow it was a good discomfort, a helpful one in silencing the doubts inside him.
For why shouldn't it be? Living through all these pains, surviving through all the discomfort, he discovers his toughness, his courage, his strength. He learns he can do more than he thought he could. He finds himself renewed.
So he goes on his way, plodding along, a solitary soul, amidst the people on the side of the road and vehicles passing. All by himself, engrossed in his thoughts, living through his pains, surviving through his discomfort, silencing the doubts inside him.
On that lonely road.
