It's not that it's dark
It's blank
Force yourself up, say fuck, work all day, try to catch up on chores, fall further behind
Do it again
My Dad's book said, Chop wood. Carry water.
There can be dignity here.
I do not embody it.
My Dad is I refuse to write it.
In my mind I'm drunk and chain smoking on the bank of a river
I write the script / I am drinking
I draft the report / I am drinking
I tend the garden / cigarette smoke seeps from the hair follicles on my arms
Externally she is keeping things together
Her Mom never missed a day of work
Are you getting back to normal?
It has been three months.
It has been so long.
I do not remember what normal felt like.
Is gratitude the same as joy?
I'm so fucking sad
