Shaking the Black

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?


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