Late

I've struggled with my demons for over a week now without comment. My mood was surprisingly upbeat most of the week, but I was deeply psychotic for much of it. The disease wears me out. It's a slow grind on my endurance, and it never stops. Hope is always there, but mercy becomes more tempting every day. I don't know how much longer this thing will dominate me, but I grow very weary of it. Sometimes, all I feel like doing is enter the ring, drop my espada and my muleta, and smile at the bull as it charges. I'd be silent, and still, just like Manolete. Part of me knows the imperfect analogy of Manolete's courage to my exhaustion, but equal parts just want peace, even at the expense of the love and understanding I wouldn't even recognize if it were right in front of my eyelids.