Another, nothing more than fear itself.
The steepness of the hill, the thunderheads, the ominous outlook sheltered
deep inside to protect you from the worst case scenario as all life seems to be measured against. Worst to best, with nothing of consequence in between.
That is our depression, our longing, our escape from the moment which seems so ordinary when it is all that we have. How did we arrive here?
The photo on the wall I always wake up to never seems the same. She is still alive, my mother, with or without judgment but always wanting to explain that my life was not the first one lived, nor the last. That there is always a solution to a problem that seems so insurmountable but not always the solution
I am looking for.
Why after all these years am I not satisfied by this?