Picture a sloth's hell, and I don’t mean a gym with a very invested trainer, no I’m talking about an apartment filled to bursting with hundreds of cardboard boxes filled with another person's belongings that you are expected to move a hundred meters. While it wasn’t a gym it could have easily been mistaken for one with multiple people all trying to accomplish the same task, and with the only break being when you are trying to get back to the starting point, but this time without the added weight as a form of rest. The smell of cardboard pervades the air even by the truck we are filling. Taunting us with the knowledge that there are even more of these hellish and tiresome brown boxes. The apartment is a mess in order to get to the larger things--like the bed or couch-- you have to climb over the hurdles while knowing that they are probably going to be next. Just hoping for the reprieve of an easy set with a bag of clothes or a box of plastic toys. 

The thirty-minute break that the others who were helping with the move decided on shows the stark contrast between youth and age whereas I just wanted to get everything done as soon as possible to leave. They needed that break or at the very least wanted it. “I don’t know how you don’t want a break after all of that.” They would say. The day would continue to drag on with box after box piece of furniture after piece of furniture.  Everybody by the end of the day just wanted to leave, and by the end, I was wishing that that break had lasted longer because my arms were numb, and my legs ached more than they had ever in my life. So I got the money that I was promised and left with my stepfather, and immediately passed out when we got home.