"It was a bleary evening. Genzo looked out of the window in front of him, filled to the brim by an indefinite feeling of self-disgust, unhappiness and dissatisfaction. He could feel the stickiness of his unwashed hair, the coldness in his fingertips -it was, after all, winter and he swore he could feel the cold even in his comfortably warmed apartment-, the heavyness of his eyelids; if that wasn't enough, his back felt sore, almost painfully so. Try as he might he's never been able to wrap his head around the fact that exercise made him feel weary and exerted, but so was staying at home, cosy in his dismal brooding, looking at all those things he had to do in front of him. Things he's heardly even began to tackle all day.
Off-handedly registering a new ache in his right forearm he felt that he could sympathise with Sysiphus, for he too felt like he was futilely pushing a boulder uphill. Only his boulder was mostly a tangled mass of ambitions, sloth, self-pity and other, equally destructive, feelings. The worst part of this all, to his own reckoning, was that he brought the situation upon himself, fully aware of what he was doing, and that -probably (the use of the term was his sole comfort in this line of thought)- he was ok with it.
Genzo huffed lazily, that was quite a nasty piece of work; he wasn't completely sure if he had to be proud of himself to have figured it out or be worried that his elightened condition had not brought about the change he hoped for. Or he should have hoped for? In this whole convoluted tangle of feelings and beliefs Genzo was finding increasingly harder to tell his hopes apart from his reasonings and deductions. Perhaps that was his latest mistake, he pondered, trying to tell the two of them apart, perhaps there isn't a distinct bonduary anymore."