Digging yourself out of the snow is a repeat process. One day of air in your lungs is always followed by another one drowning, and so on. You make your apologies to abandoned friendships, crawl toward absolution, try to clear the cobwebs from the corners of the little shoebox. Early on a Friday morning, I drive up into the mountain and look at spring becoming. We sit on a cliff face and wonder what the future holds, while racer snakes fall in love in the sunshine. I forget how to look people in the eye.
Get back up again.
You have no choice.
One day it's going to stick.
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