I have my dark days. They are not as dark as the days had once been but they aren’t light filled, aren’t clear and transparent — still thick fog in the dead of night; still lost in a place unknown.
They are lonely days. I can’t voice how I feel so no-one can understand, can hold my hand, can tell me that things are alright — no-one can help me when I’m in this place. I’m on my own.
They are misleading days. They don’t serve me well and I don’t serve them well, and in amongst all this bad service arises a confusion and chaos that leads me astray. Things aren’t the same as on a good day; everything is complex and difficult.
They are tired days. So tired — I just want to sleep, don’t want to get up, don’t want to move — but I can’t sleep, I’m awake and it’s always the same. I’m wide awake and nothing has changed.
They are uncounted days. I don’t remember these days, they barely exist; I just feel their echo accost me, accost me, accost me…
They are just days, dark days that happen.