It has been fifty-eight days since I have written. Anything. I sit at a computer or a blank piece of paper and freeze, though the past weeks re-play in my head like an old techno-color movie—just not as amusing. 

 Now I feel all rusty-hinged and out of place. No matter how wacky my senses are, or how the words fumble and crack, it is time to rejoin the human race in this thing called life. I am not sure how many more visits to the hospital await me or if I will ever break the barrier of self-doubt; I just know that I am not going to sit around and find out.  

There is too much to love and little enough time to embrace it, so it is best to do what one is able. I hate to think that I have spent my life, no matter the circumstances, drowning in a sea of flimsy hopes and self-commiseration. I want sunshine, even on a cloudy day.