First Sunday This March

Woke up blue this morning. The sky was dark like in the heart of winter, though we are now in her outskirts. I was thinking about everything anyone had said to me recently that I didn’t want to hear. Those thoughts crashed meanly into the things I said to myself last night that made so much sense. Knew my toilet was angry, but I had high hopes for it. Dashed. The tentative, mental hand I stretch out to remembered places and moments that warm me, recoiled. Everything felt so stale.

I woke up blue this morning, and I don’t want to be. It’s that simple. Direct opposition of the will and the heart. The heart should aways win you know. To stay in the present, you have to own its mood, its, sometimes peculiar, outlook. There is no denying the heart. It will out.

And so we are blue, my heart and I, until we are lifted. The will will have to sulk. No gain there. Turn it to other tasks: like a post. Each task completed is a tether cut free. Eventually the will can float, and caper in spite of the heart. So there, heart! The will and I will make a start of it. Catch up when you can.

Jotted. Released.

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