Some co-workers passed on happy hour last Thursday, saying they were tired and they probably were. I needed some drinks more than anything at that moment, but I passed because three beers honestly meant I wouldn’t have money for lunch the next day. And driving home Friday, I hesitated . . . dreaded even, returning to the solitude and do-nothing-all day of my life for an entire weekend. I don’t even like the way I write sometimes, especially as of late. It’s un-directed and self-doubting, mirroring the thoughts in my head.
The winter wind-chills and skies the color of ash has me fearing depression again. Looking down into that pit with my feet hanging ten over the loose dirt edge. All the experience of having been down there before and all the knowledge of never wanting to return.