It gets harder and harder, standing up again after being beaten down. The protests still make their way around the city, roaming bands of justice. The honeylocusts sprout frosted tips, little flashes of yellow dotting their crowns while the humidity still swelters. Almost October, you whisper to yourself and try not to hear it, buried under blankets and unchecked to-do lists and failure. Your roommate packs up her room, the dog paces nervously and you miss her already. But you miss very few things when they are actually gone.
(There are some notable exceptions.)
I spent the morning writing, in that delicious way Sundays will let you do sometimes, when you are left to your own devices and can't think of anything you'd rather be doing. I could never write while you were around, I would always rather be with you, perhaps it is better to be without that. I'm grappling at straws trying to find the person I lost, but I think who I'm really looking for is me. It's so dark outside suddenly, blustery, I am happy and defeated all at once, my bank account is drained and I don't know who I thought I could be, but I'm still someone, am I not? I'm still here, still standing back up again every god damned time, am I not? It's getting harder and harder, yes.
Does that mean I'm getting stronger and stronger for doing it?
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