Decapitation and other severed body parts are common in surrealist art, especially, of the female form and I can’t help but feel like this woman. Often.

It seems lately that for every step I take forward, several are lost. For the amount of hours I clock with my nose to the proverbial grindstone, I find instead that I am proportionately nose-less in place of ahead.

What do we do, here? At the middle of the road? When the muck has sucked us in and the sun is setting; wolves howling in the distance? When hope is not lost, but at the very least, misplaced?

I hate the answer, because I know it. I hate the answer because no matter how many times I end up here, I know that the method of survival doesn’t change.

You keep going.

You just keep moving. Barefoot, because the mud took your shoes, angry because you’re two days from retirement and you’re too old for this s*%t, sad because the Vertical Horizon lyrics “There’s always another wound to discover” mocks you instead of comforts you, and heavy because there isn’t a kind word from any mouth that seems to be worth a damn.

Maybe, at times like this, it’s being stubborn and angry that keeps me doing what’s required between reps of getting up and going back to bed. Maybe it’s just a full bladder and a dry throat. Who knows?

But I do know, however much the thought may make my stomach churn to even type it:
This  isn’t forever.

GOD is really the only one who could let you in on when this will be over, but that’s cheating. If He told you He’d have to tell everyone and some people, like me, don’t do well with knowing. We’d just lie in bed until things were supposed to blow over.

So I’ll keep writing and you keep toiling at whatever is keeping you from jumping in front of a bus and we’ll get through this together.


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