I am so weary. Of searching for answers, for hope, for healing. For a job. For lost dreams. For new dreams…trying to convince myself a dream or two remains. For purpose, meaning, reason. For wholeness and worth. For a sliver of happiness. For anything that would make life worth living. I reach and seek and grasp, but my hand comes back empty. Weary. I am so weary. Weary to the depth of my soul. Long have I been searching. Many years have I been on this journey, this cold, fruitless, cruel, unending journey. I had strength and belief in a better future when I started. I was young. Full of hope and energy. Powered by possibilities. And now…now I am old . Old and tired. With aches and pains and wrinkles. With a stone where my heart used to be. I have no strength and my time has almost run out. There will be no better future. The future has come and gone and is now the past. Tomorrow has become the yesterday of a thousand days ago. Ahead, I see only the end of the road. And still, I have not found what I have so diligently and desperately sought. There is no place to rest. I have no shelter or supplies. I walk on only from habit. And because I don’t know what else to do. But I don’t know how much longer I can keep walking. I am weary through and through. Depression covers me, a blanket that holds in the cold and keeps the warm away. The tears I can’t cry rain down on me from the frigid, gray, hostile sky. Ominous clouds fly overhead, mocking me. “Worthless! Failure! Stupid! Crazy! Unwanted! Unworthy! Rejected! Burden! Useless!” they scream as they boil and coil and whip over me. I used to scream back, “It’s not over yet! I’m not finished! I will win this war!” But now, now I hang my head in shame and defeat as the tempest of those awful words buffet me. I can’t argue with the accusations they fling at me with their cold, menacing, wild squall. They are right, these riders on the winds. I am nothing. I have lost everything and proved them to be prophets. I have continued to fight beyond the point of utter exhaustion. Beyond the place where I can’t bear to continue. Beyond the absolute end of my ability to go on. I continued until I finally lost all reason to try. Until I could find nothing for which to go forward. That’s when weariness finally brought me down. I want to believe there is a reason to stagger to my feet once again. I want to think there is something yet coming in the short time left before me that will make all the struggle and hurt and darkness that I have traveled through worthwhile somehow. I want to believe that I, even I, have a bit of a future. That there is yet some hope. But I am no longer certain. Maybe exhaustion has clouded my thinking and that’s why I believe I am finally at the end. Or maybe, just maybe, there truly is nothing left for me. Nothing to see. Nothing to become. Nothing worthwhile yet to do. Maybe the reason I am so weary is because it’s finished. I’ve truly lost. And there isn’t going to be a miracle in the morning because there will be no morning. Only this endless night. No redemption. Just a sad, slow death until that time when my lungs are too worn to take in another breath of air. I tried to escape. To overcome. I tried so hard, yet I have nothing to show for all my work and struggles. Nothing has turned out the way I hoped and prayed it would. When something could have gone right, it went wrong. When something could have gone wrong, it did. When I had a chance to make the right decision, it seems I made the wrong one over and over and over again, even though that was not my desire. When there was a right path and a wrong one, I somehow always took the wrong fork in the road. Oh, I attempted to take the best path. I prayed and sought the light. The truth. But no matter what I did, I found myself lost and alone in the night on a disastrous road. I tried to walk a straight line and found myself going in circles. The darkness howled in delight at my confusion and pain. No path has led out of this confusing, haunted, smothering forest of doom. No path has gotten me closer to the sunshine. The air remains heavy and poisoned. And hostile. I’m tired of trying to find my way out of this horrific, oppressive place. I am bone weary. Weary on a cellular level. Every fiber of my flesh, every electron of my mind, every particle of my being has been overcome by total exhaustion. I need to stop now. To rest. I hoped to finally find my way out of this horrible consuming darkness, yet here I am, still, no further down the road, no closer to the goal. I wanted to find a place of shelter. I wanted to win. To calm the storm in my mind and soul. But as I have now reached yet another fork in the long, arduous road, I discover can no longer think or reason or move. I face this fork; a fork that is a choice between two equally bad options. A fork that, I’m fairly certain, leads only to more undesirable outcomes. I lost my sword long ago, along with my will to wield it. I have no food and even less joy. And I can’t even find the strength to make a fist to shake at the sky, here on this black road, in this black place, enveloped in cold and pain. So I let gravity take me to the ground. And I watch as the night sky cries my tears for me. Torrents of tears that chill me. Freezing me to the ground. Where weariness takes me into her cold, harsh arms. As the wind cackles and roars in delight.