It's not you, it's me

When the light's out And all of the fracturing starts You're just paying For some action you lost in the dark You come down, holding tight To the railing on the side You stayed up, left to dry Now you're crumbling Now your guard's down And all of your timing has gone You were patient Till earth swallowed the last of the sun You come down, holding tight To the railing on the side You stayed up, left to dry Now you're crumbling It's not complex See all of the signs flashing on You're just paying For all of the bad you have done (Lyrics from Fracture by Bombay Bicycle Club)

We are creatures of habit because they die hard. Yes, clichés. I assume it is called that since calling it overly spoken facts is a bit cumbersome when trying to explain these simple truths, our truths really. This past year has pushed my boundaries of comfort way beyond anywhere I could have imagined and I have been avidly throwing clichés around to try and soften the blows, to find some form of solace in the painful darkness that rolled over me like a vicious unforgiving wave, like a tsunami ripping everything from its roots and dragging it away. It worked. Most of the time at least. Other times I wanted to rip the words from my own mouth and shove it down others whilst screaming at the top of my lungs. I still do. But I didn’t, I can’t, nor shall I. Though amongst all this solitude and anguish something appeared. It was not presented with a halo or engulfed with light. It was like a dove with a broken wing. Approach was heeded with caution yet the dove did not try to franti