It’s January.
It’s dark.
It’s gloomy.
It’s cold.
I once again find my mind stuck in a deep, dark hole.
The sides are steep and slick. The snow has turned to ice and making every attempt to climb a slippery and impossible task. Nails break and my fingers are raw from clawing the cracks and crevices, desperate to just get one more inch up.
Up.
Up is the goal.
Out of the dark and into the free, bright air.
Every day, another inch.
My arms ache. They shake from the effort of holding me up. They beg for rest, but I’m scared. Scared that if I do rest, I’ll fall. What if the bottom is not where I think it is? What if the hole has grown since I started climbing? What if there is no bottom? If I fall, I’ll keep falling for an eternity, unable to stop. To breathe. To smile.
I’m scared. Scared, that I’ll forever be stuck on the slick wall of ice. What if I never get up? What if I’ll be climbing forever? Is it easier to just let go? To just fall?
I climb another inch, clinging to the hope that tomorrow will be the last inch.
Tomorrow, I’ll get to the edge.
Tomorrow, I’ll get up.
Tomorrow, it’ll get better.
I watch the sun creep over the horizon. It’s so low, so weak. It seems scared, like me, to climb. To reach the top of the sky. To shin in it fulls potential.
Every day, it rise a little more.
Like me.
Every day, we move another inch up.
Tomorrow will be better.
Tomorrow will be grand.