Poem: Happy


The hope of course, is that you will get used to it.
It is strange to you. Strange that, after all the work
and time and false starts, it is here.
Fleeing perhaps. Not a consistent thing,
a thing you can count on. It comes and goes.
You are not sure what to do with it.
You certainly don’t trust it, and yet here it is,
beautiful and bright.

You remember it of course.
It was your normal once, but things change
and you have become more comfortable
in your film noir life, dark and full of shadows,
more comfortable in the damning of demons
than the dance of flowers and freedom.
Years of equipping. Preparation. Learning
the art of war. Against the darkness.

This morning you woke quietly.
Next to you she lay beautiful and sleeping.
The cat at your feet lifted his head and followed
as you padded down the stairs.
You made coffee for when she wakes.
You wrote a love note before you left for your work.

About this poem

I have fought depression so long that when I have a day like today, waking up without a fight, glad to be alive without effort, it’s a little dumbfounding, but in a good way. It has been happening more often as of late. I could get used to it.

The picture is of some miniatures I painted a short while back. Painting is one of many things, like writing, that brings me joy and satisfaction. I am blessed.


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