Ash

An entire weekend comes and goes, clawing at your gut, a sense of unease slithering along your the inside of your skin, you do not pay it any mind. There is work to be done, there are drinks to be drunk. You wade through the masses of unknown eyes and walk home in the late night with newfound empty to add to your bowls. A Monday arrives, all promise and quiet hours for weaving your tales, you dive in head first.

It's not until your running shoes reach the bottom of the Brooklyn Bridge, when you've attempted to pound the last of the itch out of you, that it catches up to you in the flesh. The dark cloud over your head turns to pain within your body, you stumble a few feet and wonder if you'll make it home: is that a fever on your brow? Your body decides to yell and scream at you when you will not listen to pleas, you return to your room and collapse for the evening, unsure anymore what it is you are trying to outrun.

Sometimes it is not enough to sit still for a minute. Sometimes we have to fall to the bottom, expel our insides, clean out the messes from our tangled minds, rest in the power of having nothing left to lose. The sun will set, the sun will rise. Tomorrow you can step out of the mud, dust yourself off, and start again. Such is the blessing of another day.

Cling to that. Wake up, again.