There is hardness brewing, hurricanes (or more appropriately tornadoes) of spiral thinking, the kind that sucks you into a blackness driven by your weakest bits. The razing by fire, the drowning by flood happens, even though the 48 more hours of fumes is choking the oxygen.
But I will swallow fire and tread water in the frigid Atlantic; I will withstand the demons and not flinch when they throw salt on the wounds.
No greater motivation to keep standing up straight than love, love for my beautiful. You are struggling and I am here. Not to save you or so you can save me later – but for love.