Bleak Awakening
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The passing of faces or the flipping of pages, the same feeling permeates the last spoken words I recall from my dream: they won’t listen.
The tension: tightness, shortness of breath, exhaustion from that frustration: “they won’t listen.”
I fight the conviction, the accusing voice condemning from shadow, sounding like myself: “I am ineffectual. Impotent. Shameful. And what I do: meaningless.”
Trembling, I get out of bed—and prepare to do it all over again.
crescent moon
one dying cricket
singing alone
Photo by Roman Stetskov
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