It's thirty nine after midnight, and tomorrow looms overhead, an uninvited forecast of yet another nightmare.

You tell yourself it's fine, you're almost there, you're almost over it. But eight weeks from now, you'll look back and see that you've barely taken a step forward, for your back foot is stuck in mud.

You wish to be able to claw at your brain. To unfold each corner of that great, gray mass, and scrub away every memory you've been trying to get rid of. You wish to shed the skin you're in, to grow a new one, cause maybe then you'll be new, too. Maybe then you'll be you again.

The thing is, you can't. You have to force your eyes shut at night and drag yourself off your bed in the morning and live with the fate you've drawn. You live, knowing that no matter how fast you run or how swiftly you hide, you can't fool your monsters. They are of your own making.

So you live. So you watch sunrise after sunrise, day after day, wishing you were anything else, anywhere else. So you live, with people telling you it's normal to feel, you're human, after all.

You live.

And you spend every minute of it wishing otherwise.