Like most mornings, Ryan and I beat the sunrise. Ryan was already well into his HBOT session and I was readying his equipment for the day when I first noticed the black night sky changing to purple. These days are predictable. Routine. As monotonous and grueling as they are, the alternative is worse. Spare the excitement, please.
I opened the blinds and the sunlight poured in.
Sunrises are reminders. Both a bitch and a sign of hope, but mostly the former. They are like a splash of cold water on the face. They taunt with the knowledge that this day, like every other, will be mired in backbreaking physical tasks. The mental grief continues to accumulate like a slow drain. Sunrises… the “Hey you, guess who’s screwed again today?” of the solar system. They practically scream at me. Most days I take a deep breath and accept it, switching my mind to autopilot. Other days I just give it the middle finger. Some days I cry.
Ah, the slow drain. It is often my fallback postulate for the sake of discussion and visual imagery. Really, it’s the best way I can explain this and so many other things.
Yet, there’s hope. Realistic or otherwise, it hasn’t abandoned me completely. Yet. The truth is, hope is what is escaping from the slow drain. It doesn’t take a
genius brain surgeon to see that eventually all hope will be gone. It will eventually drip down the drain.
I wonder how the last drop might sound? Will this last “plink” resonate so loudly that it will crumble my foundation? Perhaps, but most likely, it will go unnoticed. Unnoticed, that is, until the anguish overflows, spilling its poison named despair.