Dirt

It was kinda cold.

It was kinda dark.

It was kinda wet.

In fact I was miserable. I had mud streaking down the plains of my neck down the curve of my back.

I had been punched down and didn’t know how to get back up.I felt a little like Matt Murdock, Daredevil knocked out of me trying to pull myself up again.

But I wasn’t Daredevil. I wasn’t even Matt Murdock.

I wasn’t looking killer, I wasn’t spitting blood like a hardcore vigilante, I couldn’t pull my self up.

In all frankness, I wasn’t even bleeding, I wasn’t facing the evils of the world.

I was laying in the mud where they left me.

Cold, alone, and wallowing in self pity.

What was I supposed to do, some how dig myself out? Yes that was exactly what I was supposed to do, and yet here I lay.

Knocked down by my demons laying under a sky that had cracked open and dropped its gross slimy egg on me. The jagged fissures of the shell reflected in the lightning forking its way toward me.

Photo Credit: fineartamerica.com

I knew I should get up. I knew I would eventually.

But right now, right now I was just me.

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