Morning After.
Nothing like a large, nightly dose of acerbic tongue, manipulative self-protective reflexes and general moral tearing of the heart. Mix all that fun together and you've got a colorless, somber morning. Honestly, my skin feels too tight over my bones.
Its going to be hard to find joy in this day, really. This kind of hangover leaves so much depletion, and wouldn't be so depleting were not the body and mind just sluggish, but also the very nerve core of my being is feeling almost compromisingly sluggish.
This will sound dramatic, but I don't know how I will exactly recover from this one. The insides of me are torn, I'll have some scars.
No self righteous pains, no self pity, no self doubt, no suffrage. Just sadness over some realities, like what will never be easy, and some hopes that perhaps will ever become.
Despite this bottomless hurt I do still feel residual hope.
I'm resentful for it, but I'll get over that by tomorrow.
I conclude that my very nature will always hold on to at least a fraction of hope.
Writing this out helps a bit.
Breakfast probably will too.
Getting into my non existent dust-pile garden and finally getting my hands and feet dirty will clear my mind. It's either that or sit around and wallow, which is exactly as unproductive as the very sound of the word implies.
"Wallow."
I pray that I will never, ever allow my spirit to be crippled by another person. I give no one that power.
Its going to be hard to find joy in this day, really. This kind of hangover leaves so much depletion, and wouldn't be so depleting were not the body and mind just sluggish, but also the very nerve core of my being is feeling almost compromisingly sluggish.
This will sound dramatic, but I don't know how I will exactly recover from this one. The insides of me are torn, I'll have some scars.
No self righteous pains, no self pity, no self doubt, no suffrage. Just sadness over some realities, like what will never be easy, and some hopes that perhaps will ever become.
Despite this bottomless hurt I do still feel residual hope.
I'm resentful for it, but I'll get over that by tomorrow.
I conclude that my very nature will always hold on to at least a fraction of hope.
Writing this out helps a bit.
Breakfast probably will too.
Getting into my non existent dust-pile garden and finally getting my hands and feet dirty will clear my mind. It's either that or sit around and wallow, which is exactly as unproductive as the very sound of the word implies.
"Wallow."
I pray that I will never, ever allow my spirit to be crippled by another person. I give no one that power.
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