Unless

Work shuts down when the lights are turned and the door is locked. We sometimes shuffle together, once in awhile alone, toward the parked cars. We gather ourselves into the seats and dissipate the lot, intending to gather tomorrow for another round of everything this is.

And the night stretches before me when the walks with the dog are finished. The leaves outside are raked. Dinner and dishes and dessert and vacuuming; it is all done. The night stretches before me and it leads me to that moment that comes each night in the silence that makes me catch my breath.

I am afraid of failing at that thing I love most. 

And another birthday nears and I am still quite young. But life is marching itself onward and I have but this one chance at it. And that self I was in college shakes the ribcage of who I am now, trying to reawaken the energy I possessed for writing. And my self now says, "hush, you do not know the definition of tired" and takes another exaggerated breath and scans the imaginary list for tomorrow.

"Be like a child," my soul begs me. 

But how can I now? For I am strewn, and worn, and gasping for air.