I breathe, because breathing is good.
When the depression hit again, a good friend told me to read this poem. He told me it would help.
I fall, but I pick myself up.
I could only read so much of it in one day. I set the book down gently, treating it like a fragile butterfly. It went back in my nightstand drawer that was terribly bare. At my house, my drawers where full of everything you could imagine. But I didn't live there anymore.
I knew by heart, the next line of the poem; I remember, because memories are where I live.
I sat cross-legged on the hospital bed, with no one to talk to but myself. It sucked being hospitalized when you knew everyone you loved was out there somewhere, looking for you. Asking where you are. Probably asking why.
Sometimes I asked why. It's not like I get an answer, though.
