These days I am on occasion (daily) finding myself in the murky hot-tub of melancholy, with some guilt and longing and rage in there too, and I can’t find the exit or the changing rooms or my towel and my fingers are turning to prunes. I don’t know if I need a cuddle or a boxing ring and the line between ecstasy and despair is as thin as the much missed ice.

On these days I go take these sounds and run-walk-run. And if I’m lucky I might cry. 

Remember to stretch, for life is but a melancholy flower and those knees are precious as we navigate it.