I feel myself getting bitter sometimes, a bitterness that steps into
the place of disappointed love, of life that has failed. It is the
weight of what has passed me by, the pressure of the dissatisfaction
that remains the stark necessity of breaths I take in the absence of
hope.
I don’t see the purpose in these days. I have to rest to get
better and Dave presses me relentlessly to sit down but for all those
moments of rest, my life leaks out slowly and without remarking.
I
rail not against the night, but against a porous fog that absorbs all
moments and returns no feeling, allows neither elation nor despair. I
have no patience for this. I do not aim to.
So little life remains
and I am forced to spend what there is like this.
Image: St. Paul Faucet Repair
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