I was having a perfectly wretched morning and was in the worst of moods, when someone told me that they hoped I had a good day. I laughed so bitterly and sneered to myself at the thought. I was perfectly wretched. I had been sobbing again most of the morning and wringing the tears from my heart leaving my hands stained and cold. How could things get better? A good day was not coming my way.
But I was wrong. Very wrong.
I had a perfectly glorious afternoon.
The sky was crying softly most of the late afternoon. And I simply stood out in the rain, in bare feet, and soaked in the warmth of the fresh, crisp air, and the droplets of calm trickling out of the sky onto my too hot skin and forehead.
I could have lain out in the grass all afternoon with eyes closed, simply being with the rain. But the children were fighting. And they were hungry. And the rain stopped soon after I finally found time to enjoy it.
Just those stolen moments of despondent peace were enough though. They embedded themselves in my breast, and the rest of the evening was spent in a childish faux ecstasy of life. Just the tiniest bit unconnected, but for the most part, only jolly, ruddy, and rolling with laughter.
Darkness fell though and other duties called. I have been withdrawn into this prison of a house and recalled to dwindle in the longs halls of my mind, and my pain.
I have had far too much excercise for having eaten so little food today. I am quite sick, and have a slip of a headache.
But I am grasping and pulling at my threads of bliss from this afternoon. A dark cloud will follow me long, will cast bitter, despondent shadows on everything for long, but that does not mean lights cannot pierce the darkness. They do, and I have my hand firmly wedged into the window they are coming from, and I am going to force it open to cast light.
Today's anonymous, ambiguous statement: Sometimes I feel like I'm trying to grip a greased rope.