The Angry Typist

The early morning in mid-September is shrouded in darkness, seems fitting for the current state of things. I know in the very depth of my soul that the proverbial light at the end of this long, dark, and arduous tunnel, but I cannot even see a glimmer right now. Guided only by my faith that like all things there will be an end, I laboriously waded through the thicket, poked, stabbed, throttled, until the end. My will waivers and self-pity set in, but I must advocate for those who cannot and partake on this path that I rather avoid. I don’t like messy. I don’t like a messy house or a messy desk or messy situations. But here I am, in the thick of it, treading water, without even a moment to properly grieve.