On one of those low pressured afternoons, I decided to have cigarettes and vodka for lunch. Because I was in a rigor mortis state of mind. I was depressed, an oppressive pain like I'm breathing deoxygenated air. My head felt heavy. I dragged my body through the streets. My voice, when I found it, was flat. I felt removed, yet unable to remove myself. I sweat, my body smelled like rotting garbage and I couldn't care less. Not even when the wind blew did I lift my head to acknowledge its gesture. It was as if my body had been dumped in the grave and I was standing on top, looking down. I recognized the thing below as my body, but it wasn't me. I didn't mind the scorching hot air. I could have sat there until I evaporated, except I had to go. Had to. It was storming. I didn't mind driving through the thunderstorm, seeing nothing in front of me except torrents of rain splattering against the windshield. It felt real. I didn't know where I was going, but I couldn't stay. I would die, suffocate and die in the hurt if I stay.
Then I remembered the children. Their hugs, their laughs, their attempts to tickle me. I remembered them, as they are, with open arms running to me.
So I turned my heavy body around and headed home, to fight for another day to love.
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