Sometimes it's an off week.
Sometimes it's a mug of warm tea and a good book kind of afternoon.
Sometimes it's an hour of silent sobbing in the bathroom.
Sometimes it's a horribly lonely bout with depression.
Sometimes it's abject fear of going to sleep, because what could I wake without tomorrow? My vision? My semi-working legs? My ability to speak and sing and smile?
Other times it's a plan for a violent, angry, thoroughly visceral painting. It's envisioning every punch, every slap, every expression of my feelings toward the betrayal of my body. Because fuck MS.
