Sometimes, like today, the black manages to get a hand on me.
Like a weight, I feel sluggish and heavy.
I find myself just listening to my breathing.
The rise and fall of my chest.
A cloud fogs the back of my mind, making it hard to see.
I feel temperatures with more sensitivity than usual.
It is an odd feeling, both familiar and alien.
Intellectually, I know what it is…
but in my heart, I am stuck.
There’s a hole inside, a hollow, a place of darkness.
The icy breeze whistles through it.
I no longer fear the darkness, although it threatens to take me.
I see it for what it is: a part of me morns.
Like a fresh wound that stings and tingles as it heals,
so too the hole inside must be allowed to heal.
For who can be whole, without a few scars?
