Enough to live

 I woke up today.

Seems like such a trivial thing.

Yet, depression, this wily companion cannot vociferate in quiet tone what it has brought, to see me wither in anguish. With hoarse wailing it spews out the lament I writhe in. 

... so trivial. Another routine, another migraine, another missed family appointment... the grime of dried tears in my eyes, on my skin, and in my soul pains me; thorns of a life lived in darkness in a box with the floor, walls, and ceilings more prickly than a needle.

Yes, today will be a dark day for me I fear. Another such travesty presented upon my living altar as the offer living leaves upon the steps. At times I wonder if I am an old soul returned to suffer the indignity of living in suffering for no reason other than... to live. I fear the blind muses who aided kings and heroes laugh at my predicament, for no other seems so enduring.

I suppose, once more, I will not kill myself. I will not drive my car inside the garage and leave the engine running with a hose from the muffler to my seat. No, I won't drive my car off a cliff at high speeds. I suppose, I also won't be jumping off any tall bridges either. I've cut my arms so much in my younger-years, so deep in places, all now but marks upon my aging carcass. Yet the scars serve as a living reminder of my failure to die. 

War took so many of my friends, friends who didn't want to die, and left me seemingly untouched... the irony of living is not enduring those moments of loss, but the remembrance of them.

Here I am life. Here I am Nelson. Why? I simply don't know, and frankly at this point... I don't have the strength to care. If I did, would it be reason enough to... live?