It would be so easy to stay wrapped in the lonely arms of the Big Sad coiled into the bottom of my hole coddling this bottle of red wine. An old-fashioned cobblestone well which is now run dry, it lies atop a picturesque hill in the far corner of my mind.
I have been here so many times that there is an Amber-shaped imprint in the dried mud, about two inches deep and curled into the fetal position.
I feel the plump meat of my cheeks gently cradle the bones of my face as I rest onto the cool earth.
I take a slow, steady, deep breath of the musky dampness and think, “this is what it must feel like to be dead, minus the breathing thing.”
I drift in and out of consciousness, fantasizing about the end of all of my problems.
I know that there are a million reasons why I should keep on, but when my rose colored glasses crack, the world shows me deeper shades of blue than I ever knew existed.