It’s been dark in here the past few days. Dark like the bedroom at night with blockout curtains and small child sleep-inducing nothingness.
The new moon offers an invitation to release. And I have. But all I’m left with is darkness. Familiar, comfortable, numb darkness. Worthy of nothing. Undeserving of blessings. A vast, cavernous inconvenience, taking up space. The way it creeps in under my nose. Arrogant. Knowing I’ll just welcome it back. Depression gave me so much. Don’t I owe it a stay every now and then?
It’s such an absurd thing to write, yet somehow I allow myself to think it. Again and again. Some stints longer than others. Some peace-times only really the eye of the storm.
I’m clunky. Disconnected. A Picasso.