There are spatters on the window. I wasn’t supposed to spend this sliver of time watching globules of moisture cling to an undetectably rough surface, all of the above catching grey evening light in a haze of misty translucence.

Nonetheless, here I am, watching rain.

The weekend and the week are flowing by, unstoppable. What have I done with myself? I couldn’t say.  It’s like trudging forward through mud. The greening of the year lags, snow huddles still in valleys and ditches. I dread further busyness to come.

And some part of me wants to weep for all the time and energy that lacks so much luster, and just can’t quite be mustered up. I have so many untouched dreams that they itch under my skin. I may have forgotten contentment.

I’m sick with myself. Sick deep down inside, and weary. The wind has been incessant, the weather bleak, and I feel it in my deepest parts. I feel my own cold refusal to awaken to life.

I’d lay my head down and sleep, but this gloom won’t let me. It’s not only dreams that itch — it’s fears and all the small betrayals of a day in progress. I break the things I touch. I break hearts, break promises. All in little ways, all definite and unrelenting in their continuity.

Rain flies sideways past the window, a few drops here and there. The cold air picks up strength, preparing for night. There will be no stars.

Across the road, the old train station stands boarded up, shingles missing, paint peeling. Its red brick, too, is patched, noticeably shored up against time’s erosion. It’s a poor start to any journey, an even less outstanding destination.

And so is this day of rain. I can’t heal hurts. Can’t take back words. Can’t recapture moments that should have belonged to more important things than they did: things that stand out by their absence, when I look back.

I wish I knew better how to forget what lies behind, to look forward to the prize, but I’d somehow cease to be myself. The best I can do is stop trying.

In peace I will both lie down and sleep,

For Thou alone, O Lord, dost make me to dwell in safety.

~Ps. 4:8