There is a pattern.
Of ongoing, ever-returning
moody waves,
a stream of coming and going –
endless it seems,
now, that there never
has been an end.

Phases of inconsolable
indifference.
Of pure willpower set against
currents of dread and despair.
Waging a war against
hopeless exhaustion
and what seems
like indullable pain.

From the bed to a chair
and back into bed
a ulyssean journey is made.
Rest therefore vital,
not recreational.

One day the phase –
so much becomes clear –
has turned to a way
of passing through
life with effort and skill.
It's become a task,
a will, a determination
to go on, to strive and
to fulfill the immense
incorruptible dream
of a future that needs
to be true one day
for life is
only liveable that way.