Hustle

I should be asleep already. Six hours will not be enough. And already, I can feel the cold, sullen pain of levering myself from my bed. But I have to write. Abruptly. I have to write these little prayers everyday. I have to repeat my story everyday, so I can better script the next page.  I did all the work I needed tonight to fill my trusty jalopy of a heart. And after the weeping she managed a small hopeful smile. Her light beams out, but there is sadness there. She is troubled by the bruises on my legs, which are what made her cry. A dumb consequence of my work, and my fear and anger in the hours I am there. I keep running into the keen-edged, slate-top tables. I must reign in that wild energy and quit that!

Tonight, I did not do enough of the work for work, and because of that tomorrow will hurt a little, though less than my bruises. Yes. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I will reach out and join hands with some moment that will bring me safely to shore. The sun shines all the same on cloudy days, and so shall I try to be as steady and true.

 

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