That Dark Grey

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What are those days called when the dark grey mist starts forming around you the moment you wake up. It roils and curls around your feet like snakes in the grass and makes your first thoughts of the day turn dreary and glum. 

 Your day goes on a little bit and the smokey curls grow, swarming around you and slowly choking out your good thoughts. You try to ignore it, you put on the "make the best of it" attitude.  You paste on the smile and try to avoid the growing grey, swirling around you now in a haze — enveloping your focus, causing distraction and procrastination.  It puffs out towards your coworkers and friends, family and strangers — a mess of sticky sloth that infects everyone it touches and grows on them as well. 

You make it through, by the end of the day walking blindly in a fog, heavy as wet clothing weighing you down. Slouching and grumbling you take each step, pushing through, reminding yourself it will all be over soon and that you can start over and better tomorrow.

And then it happens. The full on throw-me-at-you wraparound hug from a child.  The crazy hysterical giggling of your kids when you sing your own made up lyrics to a JB song at the top of your lungs and get caught doing it by a stranger. The tickle-monster til you collapse game, shrieking around the house and laughing so hard you're crying.

The fog lifts, swept away by the fresh breeze, cold and crisp enough to remove every remnant of that smothering wet mold of bleak. It clears away and leaves behind the crisp happy, the no reason smile and the smooth moving normal day. 

 What a miracle cure children can be.

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