Patience

I awoke early and sat thinking on the front porch. Morning has always been my best time. Quiet and serene, it's the bit of calm before the nastiness of the day begins. My cigarette hung lazily between my fingers discarding it's leftovers onto the peeling, sun-bleached porch boards. Instead of the normal blinding splotch, the sun has been relegated to a bright white morning moon in the sky. Probably thankful to be relieved of its burden of illuminating this hemisphere for a time. The mountains sat silently, outlined in the distance as if baiting me to share my thoughts.

I leaned forward, my elbows perching on my knees and took a deep drag of my neglected smoking stimulant.

"Sometimes it all seems worthless," I said aloud.

The conversation continued in my head. "But I don't feel like ending it." I looked down resignedly.

"I'm addicted to the little bits of real life thrown at me. I'm a goddamn prisoner with Stockholm syndrome. Just keep feeding me enough candy and I forgive the shit that comes with it."

I leaned back and flicked the cigarette hard. "Fuck."

The sun was breaking free of its waking bonds and its struggle was taking its toll on the cool of the morning. I'd begun to regret not showering. I tossed the remains of my charch to the floor and crushed its remaining life. It was done. Lucky bastard.

"Patience." I heard the word from my subconscious.

"Patience?" I snapped back. What did that mean?

Deep inside the optimist in me cried out for it. I knew this voice. I've grown tired of it's persistence, but I know too its the only thing that keeps me balanced enough to pull off the sham of the day. I suppose the cry for patience was meant to keep me going and maybe tomorrow would have reinforcements.

I stood and headed upstairs to wash off the morning's pessimism. Maybe he's right. It worked yesterday.