no sunlight.

They say April showers bring May flowers, but it always seems to rain in March. In March, it seems as if the skies were never blue--never will be blue. A giant sheet of dusty gray surrounds all the dead. Dead from winter. Dead from life. And who am I to make it live again? I am one person. One person getting older. Graying. Hair and skin take on the blase tone of things that are dead--but soon the black and white of life blur together as well. How can I set life right when I am not right myself?
March is like running--never fast enough. Never fast enough to escape the rain, or fast enough to divert my eyes from the dead skies. At least it all used to be covered. Frozen in place, at least. And I didn't mind.
But now, there is so much to see--so many leaves plastered against the cracked and salty road, so many branches laden down from humidity. And I, pathetic I, cannot even lift up myself, let alone the spirits of others. Because really, what hope is here? What is reachable? What promise?
No. I cannot see through the opaque gray sheet that acts as a bubble--surrounding my life, forcing my eyes to look at nothing but my struggles, my faults... my past. For all I know, there is no future; I can't see it. Hell, I can barely see myself.
The wind constantly hisses--you're not good enough. You're not good enough. You will never be good enough--because I can't see the sun. There's no sunlight. No sunlight.