It is 10:34 a.m. on a Monday in September. Part of the sky is cloudy and part is bright blue. Two cats that don't belong to me are snuggled close by sleeping on each other and tears are pouring from my face. I’m sad. Tired.
Life is hard.
I feel as if I have been living on optimism for days. It is as if I have not only, depleted my reserve joy but also, borrowed some from others. It is like wearing something that doesn't belong to me.
I guess it is wearisome going on first date after first date. Always saying yes because to say no would harm a possibility, end a chance. The questions that crowd behind my eyes: maybe this will be… what if this actually happened… I’m not sure, but what’s the point of being sure…
I’m tired of coffee drank alone and friendships miles away. The idea that maybe my mom is returning sooner rather than later: smothering. I am now gasping, sobbing.
Crying, recovering from living a life full of hope.
Because it is hard.
Six books crowed my feet, pushed against a bag stuffed with 6 more. A melody by the Paper Kites drifts through my speakers and into my soul. I feel like a conduit that is cracking, leaking. Maybe I just need some TLC; I lifted my foot and made an appointment with my counselor.
I warmed up a blueberry English muffin, and carefully smoothed butter in every crease. The sun came out from behind a cloud and I can see sunlight pouring into the windows of the house. I open one to let more light in. Clearing a space on the table I clear a space in my head, and it starts to feel like hope.
Its 11:37 a.m. and I’m ready to start my day over.
Life is hard, and it is okay to ask for help.
And hope, hope is endless.