The days continue in tar, you wade waist-deep in it now, there's sunshine on the horizon but your legs are lead. The bills do not care for your diagnoses, do not care that you are trying to make it just one more day, one more hour, trying to get to a bank in the whitewater where you might breathe for a spell. They'd like return on their investment, and you're looking like a hazard.
I begin to chip away at the mountain of work ahead, try to eke out a path where there is still only darkness, but you are carrying an elephant of lead on your shoulders, is it any wonder you feel so tired all the time? The wind picks up, carries the last leaves of autumn into oblivion, wraps its cold grip around the city, I fear I have so little left to give a year that demands more than we could ever have guessed. He says tell me one thing you like about yourself and all I can think of is the cotton between my ears. I get back up again, I say finally, matter-of-factly. I no longer have access to feelings like pride, like joy, but a few rational shreds remain.
I dust myself off
and I get the fuck back up.
No comments:
Post a Comment