There is a good kind of tired, and a bad kind. The good kind lets you know that you had a good, full day, that you were productive, that you made fairly decent choices. The bad kind is like getting kicked in the face after you’ve already been shot a few hundred times. (I am thinking of the Jersey tollbooth scene in “The Godfather” with James Caan.)
Tonight I have the good kind, which is in itself rare. I guess I’ve snapped out of my funk a little, but everytime I emerge from this shadow, I’m afraid that another wave will overtake me.
Why is the worst always the first thing that comes to mind?
But that’s the depression talking. I can’t help but wonder what my life would be like if I didn’t have to fight with this madness, but you know what they say, there’s a fine line between genius and insanity, and lately I’ve been spending way too much time on the latter and not enough in the former.
Is it too much to ask? Each day that I live life unoccluded, experiencing moments with all my senses. No darkness weighing me down, no sorrow holding me back. What would life be like?
Do I have a chance?
Hope. It’s the thing that’s gotten me this far.