I look out at the grey shy and feel its reflection in my heart.
I look at what my life has become after fighting so hard to keep it, and wounder if I would have if I’d known where it would lead.
For years now, broke, hungry, depending on others just to survive, the dreams I once had all becoming less substantial, less believable as time progresses and I look with a hard eye on reality. I don’t write this for your pity or encouragement. I write this because it’s what I feel, all that I see in front of me.
The last hope I have, the last thing that might change this life of nothing is my book, and even the excitement of that has waned over time and the poisoned questions I always ask myself.
But I need to try. I need to keep going, if only for that. Only for that. Only for the slight possibility of perhaps helping someone else, of perhaps helping me. Of the possibility of breaking out of this place that I’ve built inside my heart, ripping down the walls I hide this sense of hopelessness behind and letting it go, letting it dissolve.
I still remember how to fly – I just can’t seem to get a running start.
Just one of those days.