I must get back to work.
I must get back to doing the work that everyone sees as nothing but I know is everything.
Depression crashes right through the front door, and before you know it, you’re pushing up daisies or, worse yet, sleeping your life away.
We are the dreamers, and though we may appear stagnant, nothing could be further from the truth.
We are the provocateurs causing trouble the live long day, knowing that whistling while you work will only bring you that much closer to the graveyard.
We are the fast food slaves who refuse to serve you any longer because you’re obese and that zero trans-fat doesn’t seem to be doing you much good.
I’m sleeping on my mother’s floor at forty-five years old with no clue what to do next, but I swear I do have an end game. It’s just one I choose to keep even from myself.
I want to tell you how I feel, but being ignored on Facebook is somehow worse than being ignored in person.
I need something I can believe in. Someone I can sink my teeth into who will return the favor and make me feel alive again. I have all the belief in myself that one person can possibly muster, but still that is not nearly enough to carry me over the threshold and deliver me to the Promised Land. I am a witness though I swear to Christ what I’ve witnessed so far does not impress me, nor does it give me much faith in the living dead.
I must return to some semblance of normal.
I must stop feeling guilty for anything and everything I’ve ever done wrong. It’s not about pulling yourself up by your bootstraps but instead about keeping it together when the shit is constantly hitting the fan and even the shit has had enough.
This paralysis I have been wrestling with has begun to not feel so awful, and that is neither acceptable nor something I would wish on my worst enemy.