It’s a gorgeous sunny day and this morning oddly enough, I woke up and walked here in such great spirits and greeted this warm albeit wet, slippery day with the only ounce of hope left that I had.
It’s now the afternoon and the sky looks like thta of a child’s crayon drawing; scribbled teal, waxy white clouds grazing the tops of geometrically perfect buildings; despite thick windows I can almost hear chirping birds, can almost see their wet mange and smell springtime and barbeque in the distance; it is one of those comforting days, full of lazy intangible hope.
And yet, I feel hopeless. And I wonder why I felt so full of some kind of joy this morning. Where did that come from? That burst of energy and iridescent spiritual light that poured from me moreso than it has all week.
Now I feel like dead, flat runny jello has replaced the blood and muscle in my body. And I’m this flat sack of nothing, waiting to be told so by someone else.