journal · prose

Good Morning Gloom

Your eyes open to the facelessness of another gray dawn. The morning is graceless, tactless. Serving only to remind you of all the regrets you’ve been racking up like debt. There’s no paying it off, no ignoring it. Oh well. Give one less fuck than the day before and keep moving forward. Walk square shouldered and smiling into the next mistake, the next distraction, the next unplanned reaction to an action or trauma; clinging tightly to the wish to erase the trail of broken promises that are scattered amongst the corpses of memories behind you, the hope you cast aside seeping into their bones. And you can still feel, still recall, the moment when that hope was so fresh and alive within you. How you were so ready, so fantastically willing and able to take the next step, walk the next mile, and come out on the other side a hero. A survivor. A testament of true faith and resolve for all those lost inside the dark moments of their lives. Except you got lost, too. The truth is you probably always were. And you’ve been waiting for someone to save you, to find you, to wrap love around you like a warm blanket or a thick winter coat that you can have and wear anytime you please, anytime you need. But the need is constant and people seem to be so stingy these days. Well, nothing left for you now except to pick up that old hope (that stupid shit you thought was useless), dust it off, patch yourself up with it, and keep on keeping on, my friend. Head bowed and heart open to the possibility that tomorrow might not be quite as bleak as today. Or better yet, just go back to bed. Because there really is no good reason to be both fucked and fucked over.

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