When everything is difficult, the ink dries.

I was told to stop drinking coffee, but I still drink it depend on it. I'm looking for escape clauses everywhere. Makeshift beach, pretend vacation, couch as mountaintop think-spot. Solitude as necessity is nothing new; love as necessity still feels new but I like it. The day job by which I pay for life is killing my soul, which is sad and ironic, if that's the right word to use. Step-motherhood's a bitch, and I fear the self-fulfilling prophecy of it all. As it turns out, being good doesn't mean you'll be good enough. Idealism is a terrible, terrible thing.

There's a fresh chapter starting, somewhere, without me. Right now I'm stuck on the muddied pages of reality and I'm done with it. But I can not be done with it, because life is life. I read the news to remind myself that I'm pompous, and self-centered, and my troubles are a picnic. The spotlight on my life will land on shadows and arrogance, I think.

There's a certain silence permeating my life, because rageful debate and calm demeanor have gotten me nowhere. My audience prefers to be lied to, and I can't do it, so I stay quiet instead. Go along for the ride. Now, I want off.

Thankfulness is always a savior, picking me up from the grave of a new problem. I refuse to be won-over. I need a win, so I make one up. I need another, make one up again. Through it all, God is very quiet.