There are days. When things don’t add up. You need time – you don’t have any. You need to care for another, but you can barely hold yourself. You don’t say good morning or hello, in fact you lock yourself in your room. You watch, weep, whine – nothing works. Nothing. Then it happens.
The fog again – that dark gloomy mist starts settling in. The one that tells you to lie down, don’t get up – curl up – think of them – the friends who didn’t stay. Your rain wasn’t their kind of rain – they left. Then the last special someone – oh! Oh! You are in trouble now. Why, after so long? “Why not?” the fog states. It plays over and over – back and forth, back and forth. Tired, sore eyes. Doors bang, knock knock, pings on phone, the ones who remain are also tired. Tired of your ways, tired of your sways. “Lie down,”’ the fog says.
Then you find paper. A loose sheet around the corner of your eyes. You know there’s a pen somewhere. “No hurry,” the whisper claims. You watch it, then you don’t. Till you find a pen; did it find you? Doesn’t matter.
Paper-pen, your hand, a stare-down. Till you pick it up, begin. One word. One line. Doesn’t make sense, no rhythm. You stumble, still you go on. Block by block, you take knocks – it’s a battle within – dirty, ugly, scarred, filthy – someone else’s bastard children these lines! Yet you take them, accept them as your own. Because now you are no longer lying down. Now you are up – you want to fight for them. The fog’s still there, it still hurts. But its status quo. No longer a walk-over. And you will take that. Any day. Everyday.
You dust yourself, open the door and walk out.
It will happen again. You know that. You knew that always. You keep your weapons ready. Some days it will be tough, some days you will lose. Then look at it another way – what choice do you have? So, you keep on going back – keeping them handy. Keeping them by your side. Sharpened. So, you can keep on writing, keep on fighting, keep that fog at bay.