The day doesn't start until I'm out the front door and getting the blood flowing, walking down alleys and staring up at trees. The first part of the morning inhered microwaving the cup of coffee every fifteen minutes because the cats distract me from drinking it while there's steam rising. A waste this morning is, I tell myself. A waste I make of it most days.
The trees bend and some smaller branches break off. There is a cacophony of wafting whirlwind breaking through the alleyway. The rain had subsided before I started off on the walk but begins to pick back up. I'm too confronted with myself this morning to care about getting wet, the bitterness I have toward my lack of openness with nearly everyone around me.
I pray every night to God he'll show me how to love. More clearly how to verbalize my concerns and cares. And just be real. I think my friends know my love for them. A lot of them, I've told. I just can't seem to cut myself a break and I keep shoving at myself this anger - there's more love I can give, more specifically, in accordance with last night, a better reaction and words to follow it. My dear friend didn't get the job he was wanting. I could see in his face the disappointment. I don't know what to do with my face when I am told bad news.