I can’t get myself to read the bad news, so I keep saving it for another day. A day I don’t feel like my heart’s underground, and my will has left my body for a fluorescent-lit tunnel to nowhere. I feel unlike myself, then question who the real me even is.
Meanwhile, the bad news piles on. My bookmarks are heavy with stories of abandoned children, of our country’s evils, of our planet’s inevitable demise. Compounding and compounding and compounding.