Friday Morning Front

Is there anything more depressing than a rainy grey morning alone? Why is it then that this drab time alone, makes me feel safer, at peace even, in the humid monochrome? I almost feel like reaching out, breaking an extended silence, a phone to a friend. Almost, yet, I wont.

If I were the broken character in some morose film about the human paradox, I’d be the first one in the theater to think; just pick up the phone and make the call. Thus the paradoxical nature of our tragic behavior: even with the medicine within reach, my self-destructive stubborn shame overcomes all preventive antidote. And so it goes, the invisible scars upon my arms, each one marking another day I’ll suffer alone and drift further apart.

How far has this water traveled to rain down, melting my faith, soaking my skin? If I could wish for a power, I’d take some common sense. If I could crawl into their minds to see what they think, what would I see? Be rational, they say, stop blaming yourself, have faith.

 

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