A little something something.

Someone heard the calls.
Last light fights to break the clouds and suddenly a burden of some sort evaporates.
And whatever problems woke up with me have disappeared in this last push to reclaim what is right.
I just hope it lasts.

Gradually, then suddenly says Hemingway.

Happiness is but a single point reflection of the constant effort put forth to subdue the bad, the troubling, the ugly.
Or something?
It's an illusion anyway.

I guess lately I have been sucking at the subduing part.
I sleep to long.
I eat too much.
I think too little.
I doubt more often than not.
I look forward only to the next escape.
I'm not really living.

What happened to the writing, the painting, the making, the creating, the made up stories I would tell my mom everyday in the laundry room?

Purple, yellow, green, and blue collide.
But all I see is black, gray, and shades of white.