Contrast

Some days would begin with both challenge and beauty, as most good days do. My avoidance of discomfort would be overwhelmed by a love of sensory experience and of life itself. The cold ocean would shiver me awake and the sun would draw its warm radiance from my being.

The other days wouldn’t really begin. Rather, they’d trail on from the previous evening. I’d wake to a stale fog of nihilism and the left-over taste of self-disgust. A psyche sat in a pool of its own bile, drinking from its own sickness, waiting to be saved, refusing to look up at the obvious.