I don’t think I was given this heart for me, I think I was given this heart for you.

The winter months have both swept through in a flurry and have been monotonously dull and slow all at once.

I haven’t come to this space in recent months because I am not sure what to say. My energy has poured solely into cultivating childhood memories for my kids, leaving me somewhat empty for creativity and writing for myself.

When I don’t stay busy, my mind drifts and wanders into the depths and shadows of places I’d rather not, exacerbated no doubt by a gloom-full winter that just beats on.

When depression begins to grip tighter, and breathing becomes uneasy, I remind myself that my (scarred) heart is not for me, it is for them.

They are my heart beating outside of my own body and the euphoria I feel when they are happy is better than any drug or alcohol or outside source could ever make me feel.

Spring will come, as it always does.

“…the sun will rise in spite of everything

and the far cities are beautiful and bright. I lie here in a riot of sunlight watching the day break and the clouds flying.

Everything is going to be all right.”

Derek Mahon

And so it goes.

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