Fuel

There's a moment at the bottom, when you have all but resigned to being washed over by the sludge and are determined to simply set the bar at holding your breath until it passes, when the last reserve of neurons inevitably fire, setting you off in cascading sparkles, reviving your hope for yet another dawn. At the bottom of the barrel, suddenly whispers of your highest high; it is an enchanting drug, promise. 

I stay up all night, crafting words, singing songs, wondering at all that lies around us. When she says she doesn't want this life anymore, you do not understand her, does she not see dawn on the horizon? Like bread for the starving, like fountains in the desert, does she not feel the warmth in the snow drift?

I know it is too soon. I know we have been here before and many weeks of destruction lie before us yet, that the Darkness can bury me a hundred times over and the woods are deep. 

But when you are handed butterflies in winter, when you feel the madness tickle your lungs like it used to before everything fell apart, 

you simply take it,
you rise with the swell
just as long as you can.