“How are you doing?”
“Hanging in there.”
Wait no. Not good. Hanging in there? Sounds scary. And this response came from a guy who seemed like he was in a good mood. Why is he just hanging in there? Is he alright? Is this what Thoraeu meant, the quiet desperation? Hanging in there carries a sort of ungratefulness. He lives in a first-world country. He has a job in a first-world country. He’s not living in poverty. He’s living in the year 2019, with access to the Internet, to Wikipedia, to audio books and podcasts and Christmas and paper straws. One man’s hanging in there could be another mans never felt better.
But I don’t know about his life. He could be living with a sick relative that he needs to take care of. He could be working to pay off debts. This might not be his only job. This might not be his only job out of three jobs. He could have four jobs. In the world of side-hustles, he could have six jobs. So who am I to judge, to plant myself on higher ground, looking down at those who are hanging in there?
Nobody has everything sorted out, perfect and tidy. Hanging in there is honest.