My Dearest Annie,

I have a hell of a story behind all my comeuppance as of late. I figure a person can not know what real pain is until they’ve felt desperate. You know the kind desperation that will alter you. For better or worse it’s something that changes you. Desperation reveals itself in many ways, there are no “proper” or socially acceptable ways to feel desperation. But there is an area of the many shades of grey making up the colossus of desperation that only the people who’ve ever felt or been privy to its torture will really understand the prose in my letter to you my dearest friend.. Annie I know you’ve made-acquaintance with this grey, I dedicate this to you..

I think when a person comes out the other side of that desperation, if they’re lucky enough to have survived. Survived inwardly. There’s still a ember of something. You Don’t know what it is but you feel the burn. Your eyes are clear for the first time.

You are tuned into life and all it’s torment the Shit that made sleep evasive doesn’t even bother you. You simply don’t lose sleep you’ve slept in your rental car (If you’re lucky)on the park bench in south side park In the rain. You’re grateful for what you once Saw as a right. Food clothes makeup You just keep going. Because although from all appearances and logic, your eyes can’t see, your heart can’t find, your hands can’t fabricate your vocabulary escapes you.

There’s Nothing, anything , there’s nothing to live for. But there’s one thing you think of. It could be as stupid as a oil change. The oil change is a promise there’s going to be a tomorrow.

Then you remember the day after you’ve got a room full of monsters to pack up to send to goodwill.

So like Dorothy Parker said “you might as well live.”