The morning arrives dark, dragging itself into existence. I sleep a deep sleep and outlast my alarms, this does not happen. The long sleep should make me well-rested, I think as I wade through a day of heavy eyelids: nothing works according to your plans. Little snowflakes dance their way to the ground, they do not stick (what does?). It's only Monday, you tell yourself, always with the mantras, always with the reminder that better things can come if you endure this life. Were we only ever meant to endure it?
I miss a simple joy.
But it's only winter.
There is life yet to be lived.
Isn't there?
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