It’s my birthday this week. Over the weekend, I didn’t think much about it, but come today, it’s all I could think about. And it didn’t suit me.
Before I started writing tonight, I went back to read what I’d written last year. I didn’t do NaBloPoMo last year. I was in the throes of depression. It’s rearing its ugly head again now. I see it. I recognize it. I wanted to close the door in its face before it came in, but it’s too late.