That gray cloud of disconsolate has turned an ominous black. I’m not managing it. I’m not handling it. I’m not beating it. It has me wrapped inside its womb of bleakness in a way I’m not sure I will birth myself from this time…

I’m not even sure I want to.

I am struggling.

To be. Here.

I no longer lament over broken dreams and a shattered heart. Nor over the spilled milk of my childhood. Nor over the abuse. The shame. The cowardice. The pain. Of this life.

What’s the point of it?

I don’t walk in the graveyards of the past.

I don’t miss him.

Or her…

They don’t miss me.

I miss something I’ve never had. Someone I’ve never had. And each day grows darker with the never having known it.

This isn’t a mood. Swing.

Or depression.

Or psychosis.

Or sadness.

I am way beyond that.

This is despair.

True and desolate.

Mind numbing hopelessness.

I write of it here for fear that I may never write here again.

I have given up.

This life is just too hard.

And I’m really not that strong.

I thought I was.

Everyone thought I was.

But they were wrong.

And so was I.

Life just doesn’t make sense anymore.

Not any of it.