i’m laying here looking up at the ceiling like it’s going to change.

like it’s got all the answers.

but it doesn’t suddenly transform into the physical equal of ultimate understanding.

it just stares back, maybe expecting the same from me.

will i always feel the same? what if i feel better and my perspective on all those i’ve brought along the trip downhill changes?

scared of getting better.

emotional cancer eating away at me.

but somewhere, far below the surface, lower than this couch, lower than this floor and the basement that lies below it, there is hope somewhere, and i’m digging a hole downward, seemingly a grave, waiting to hit oil, gold, for hope to spurt up out of the ground and lift me skyward…

…and never let me down.