Eight a.m.

I’m caught between hope and dreams.  But, like the weather, reality hangs over me.  Beyond my control it seems.  I look around the clutter of the room and yearn for that simplicity and space I’ve known elsewhere.  The decency I knew is now inseparable from fantasy.  The journey to recapture it appears beyond my means just now and I feel the weight of depression heavy like six feet of clay upon my grave.  We are almost at the darkest day.  I tell myself that summer and escape are on their way, but there’s a lifetime to live in between.  I administer the fix and it seems to work, though the road is high and unguarded, the drop unbroken and irretrievable.  Every road needs a destination.  Every destination is a dream.  Every dream is hope.