Don't kid yourself. The black dog comes out of nowhere and always bites you in the arse. There is absolutely no reason for me to be feeling this way, but I have been unable to move today. Finally, at five o'clock I force myself out into the rain with the dogs and stumbled through the woods, only seeing damp, cold, mud and rain. None of the beauty. None of the way the green moss shimmers in the rain, or the way only half the tree trunks are wet, or the way the birds sing despite the rain.
And so I tell my insta-story.
I wish one's mental health wasn't a prisoner to the weather.
I wish I could tell you that muddy puddles and rain are inspiring.
Honestly they aren't.
I don't like it when the world shrinks. It should be expansive and filled with possibility.
Not sure how to fix it, so we walk.
(Even now I feel I shouldn't mention it; it feels selfish, self-indulgent; I am ashamed of it.)
What kind of story is this anyway?
This dog is brown. (Not black: this is the story I tell myself.)
They tell you to ask for help, but I'm not sure I know what help looks like.