Struggling, pushing as hard as I can, that's what life is, to me. It begins with a cry, finds peace in breathlessness, and the in-between is all effort. I'm tired of fighting, worn out by living. I say I have no purpose left. Alright, sit down, take a breath. Coasting downhill is easy, but can we rest a moment before climbing up again? Sure, but life slips away right there, in the spaces between. We have to keep pushing. We have to believe. In ourselves, in a stranger, in family, maybe a god or many, if needed.
I think that's something you admired in me, this relentless struggle. And I think you're the one I trust most in that struggle. Shadows cloud my mind, but I've seen the proof, when I fight, something happens. Yet here I am, doubting. Time? Take all you need. But anyone who cries out about their burden must have come to love it, right? Just like those worn-out sweatpants, the spot where you sit has also given way. Isn't it harder to imagine moving toward me?
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