At the End of the Day



What faces us at the end of each day? Is it the promise of a new day on the morrow, or is it the indictment of a failure following us into the darkness of the night? What have we constructed since last we slept? What do we reconnect to after a short respite of sleep? Will what we build survive the darkness of the twilight ahead of us? Does sleep unravel Penelope's tapestry? Does it repel Sisyphus' rock? Does it suture talon-ripped wounds?  Do we simply survive each day to survive the next? Is it worse to have an answer then find it false, or to never face the future with any certainty or hope?  What if we paint our days on cardboard canvasses, only to find the first downfall of rain rotting and dissolving their substance? And worse, if we endeavor to construct our collage on love, what then when the framework proves to be false and the multitude of gestures and intimacies crumble meaninglessly to the ground? When we look to tomorrow, does it hurt more not to imagine a face out there to cradle in our hands buffeting the angst of our ennui, or having the limited vision that sees only one lone silhouette sliding further back into the velvet darkness forever? What happens when ending this day becomes more salient than starting the next?

*A note - this is just an extrapolation of a moment's anguish, a toe-dip into depression, or just the by product of too many sleep aids and cranberry juice. Don't worry.