The year kept stumbling on. Every day, every hour accompanied, encompassed by a silent howl of despair that underlay every breath. The tiniest scraps of good were scrabbled together in a desperate attempt to keep going, and misery was part and parcel of saying hello to each new morning. Sleep wasn't a refuge either. Dreams used to be a mystical fantasy place worth escaping to. Now, if they came at all, they were dull... colourless, flavourless... or bad; bad as the most despairing moments felt in the lonliest deepest part of the heart. Worse, there was this sense of anticipation - holding. As though the very air KNEW there was more in store. Somewhere, sometime, sometime soon, another shoe would drop. Then another. Ugly, unhappy-making shoes that would fall with a depressing thud, knocking another few ounces of goodness out of the pitiful store you had left. It got to a point where it didn't even feel worth trying to dodge the next bullet when it came. Really, the best that could be hoped for was to endure. Yeah, this wasn't going to be a year for joy, or happiness. I just tucked my head down & hoped it would be over soon.
~~~ 2007
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, \ Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit \ Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, \ Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it. ~~71, Rubainat of Omar Khannam
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