A short story, a message to myself, found again by accident. Written a year ago. It is a message of hope, written in an uncertain time.
The second weekend of February. Clothed in red and white, it is a pretender. It claims to be the herald of romance, but it is not. It is, instead, the harbinger of emotional torture.
On reaching a milestone, today, I share the briefest of notes. How I got here, and what it means. Half a year of sobriety.
There is no end to the to-do list. Life is all about upkeep, sometimes. And trying to get far enough ahead of it to make another step forward.