Morning pours into rooms like it always does. Same gold hues flood open walls with light and color. Same warmth kisses cheeks in same splendor. The ritual of returning from slumber remains as it always has. Same.
I do not pause to inhale that fresh first breath of daylight like I so often did. I do not rise eager for the adventures awaiting my conscious mind with an ease that once came natural. Instead I lay there, blank and unthinking for a while. I lay there and count the seconds before my alarm sounds.
Seasons come and seasons go. Summer winds its way to a close with a departure dotted with sooner sunsets and cicadas crooning well into dusk. A chapter my life wrote nears its conclusion and my mind tries hard to will itself to the final page. I wonder where the luster went as I walk from disheveled bed to toilet. Everything is a mess. I look around me, at the disarray of my little world. I think about all the promises I didn’t uphold. I wonder about the people awaiting my answers. Everything is a mess. My mind recalls a phrase from a show I never watched, delivered by a character I never knew. Did I do that?
Sorry you haven’t heard from me lately.
Happiness is a river that runs dry every once in a while. In its parched state, a desire for solitude cracks the dry beds that once held it. The days of drought sap what is left there; kills the verdant grasses that once lapped at the source. Upon this dead bank I sit, watching for the clouds to roll in. A storm is coming that will surely restore this place to its former glory. Nature is reliable in its cycles, after all. As I wait, I feel the age on my skin with older fingertips than before.
If I’m truthful with you, I despise these dry spells. I wallow too much, I do the bare minimum. I criticize myself more and achieve far less than I wish to. My mind pities its present for its past self. Work harder, it growls.
I don’t. I sit and I wait. I do nothing.
Sorry I stopped being around.
It’ll pass. It always does.
A cloud rolls in over the horizon, swollen with rain.