Sometimes, I think the very best thing I can do is show up again tomorrow. Set an alarm, fold at my desk and try again.

These days have felt like sludge, mud thick around my ankles. The numbness sits heavy in my throat. Hours like quicksand, the never-ending rain, the kind of quiet that isn’t restful.

I tried to spin the words into something beautiful, but my head is filled with mist. I light candles, make my bed, keep my window open. Angry hands, clumsy fingers.

Sometimes I do not know how to try harder. How to try different. I sit with the emptiness, cradle it.

Everything feels raw and dulled at the same time, the familiarity of holding back tears. It isn’t enough, except that maybe it is. I don’t know how to let it be enough. I want to try.

I sit at this desk; the words I cannot fathom into coherence, the thoughts I do not know how to write. Sometimes, I think the best thing I can do is blow out the candle, turn off my computer, listen to the voice of someone I love, feel the ache of the bruises, swallow back the feelings, try to sleep. Rinse, and repeat it tomorrow. Until it becomes easier, like tide coming in.  The mud turning to water, blue and cold.



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