After the fog has lifted, and after the skies have cleared,
the cool wind, in its infinite simplicity, sweeps in and pushes the pain away.
Floating on the breeze, memories weave in and out, each one maneuvering itself and
fighting for domininace in the dark void of an otherwise bottomless abyss.
Crawling, reaching, crying-each tear shed burns the eye, searing through the milky
lens that protects us from ourselves.
The inner sanctuary, compromised and corrupted, still holds the promise of an existence
worth living, despite a stream of consciousness that otherwise tries to silence us.
Self talk can be relentless, but this sounds hopeful.