It’s the long days, the days that take forever to get started and even longer to end.
The gray days, the days that are drab and drawn.
The cold days. The I-feel-so-old days.
The days I can only just muster up enough energy to scold myself for being lazy. For being hazy. For being slow and glum and down and dumb.
It’s the sad days. The days my mother little around every corner waiting to pounce, waiting to announce all my flaws with her claws and her frowns.
It’s the bad days. The days the smell of merlot haunts my nose until the flavor fills my mouth much to soon, long before noon.
These are the days I remember depression. The days I am frozen. The days I can’t escape.
These are the gray days.
They come around too often.
