i believe myself daily to be on the mend, to be the master once again of davis seas, to know this word "happy" and embody it fully.

all this means is that i am allowed a daily sense of accomplishment.  all this means is that i am allowed something small to be proud of,

until sleep and dreams come and rob me of my two steps forward, drag me that unforgiving one step back, leaving me with ground to cover in the morning.

it is a daily struggle.  i cannot see the end.  though i am convinced that as readily as i conquer day, i will soon be able to conquer night, i am weighed down by the enormous, daunting shadow of that looming task.  there is so much effort to be expended and i cannot find the motivation to expend.

perhaps this is melodrama.  i will admit to such possibility.  but have you, in turn, entertained the notion that melodrama is the loaded slingshot to my goliath?  my enemy is great and powerful in his lackadaisical apathy.  while he drinks the days away, i compose.  when we find eachother on the streets and his steps bring him unsteadily towards me, i will have no shortage of carefully thought-out barbs filling my bag.  i will be prepared to slaughter with a smile. 

i still love my enemy. 
i cannot imagine a world or a life where i do not wrestle constantly with the plain-as-day fact that is: i still love my enemy.
and so my tiny victories, my daily accomplishments are soured by love, by the repetition of the name in my head and the looping projection of the "good times", the memories i cannot bear to sully, the memories that sully me.

and what i wouldn't give for an accomplishment that is wholly mine.  a first prize badge awarded not for avoiding his street, deleting his number, not speaking his name, but for going a day without using what used to be as a way to define what presently is.

my prize will be a life reclaimed.  my only task is patience.