I’m hurting. I have my days. I look forward and purposely deny myself the possibility of reflection. I actively pretend a part of my life does not exist, that reality was an illusion, a s sort of dream, spectacular in its own right but false in its longevity.

I stand alone with some effort to understand, just why, how could I fall so hard that I forgot where it might be that I can stand up again, and feel worthy of my own rationale. I ask myself every day if this one will have any more hope than the last, and I find my answer, the one I choose, or would choose not to decide upon in the twilight of that following night, and then some sleep, very little.

The circus will begin in the next sunrise.