I woke early in the dark and cold with only red numbers projected on the ceiling, confirming that yes, it is early, and yes, it is still dark 04 hundred.
I lie here awake. The pain has been my alarm, and I am so tired,
tired of tired,
tired of it. And I long for heaven.
When you are strong, heaven is an ever-after long time ahead—a warm, fuzzy promise for after I have collected all my joys
and am done with them, ready to move on. But as time wanes and the body fails,
what I have played with seems much more shallow;
what I thought would last forever is fading fast, and
my perspective is turned to what is ahead rather than what is behind
. . . or now.
And the nice ever after becomes a longing, and the firmly held hope becomes a thing…
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