The lips taste sweet...

I am drinking a potent mix of pragmatic juices, or was that pomegranate? The expiration 6 weeks over due. But I never opened it I dare. Is this sweet juice acidic from the blend of fruit, or is it fermenting on my very tongue?

The flowers in my garden are dominated by the yellow of the diverse strains of blacked eyed susans, and the pink of cosmos. The purple haze of cornflowers are coming, next to the planted shasta daisies mixed with the planted weeds of the same color and family. I have purple clematis kissing the newly planted honeysuckle...as the moranda (bee balm) is setting to bloom.

My garden is an oasis of color in polluted muck.

I am worried. The waves of bleak anxiety have returned. I was once told they were panic attacks. My consciousness would wash up in the black. Like the rising tide drowning the sand on the shore. Except I cannot decipher a cycle or rhythm to it's madness. It just washes me into the abyss without warning. I fall as if I am being swept away with the current and I cannot breath, nor hear, and hardly see the world around me.

And then it is gone... But with each wave, a part of me has broken off and gone.
If I gasp too long, I may try to cut at the strings. Except those strings may hold me in place.

I assume this is the beginning of depression.

It may be that I may not be able to work as hard, as strong, as most people. All I know...is that I am bone weary tired right now.