Present in the moment is as much curse as blessing.
With the future nothing more than a ephemeral dream, present becomes of such importance. And not being with those I would choose, who I have no idea if they would choose me, is like being shredded apart only to coalesce whole at the start of the day. Each minute is a new chance, and so each minute becomes a failure. Until the weight of such drags me down to dreaming. At least in oblivion, desire is fulfilled. Though only shadows as portent and memory fade.
After the winter solstice it all winds down. A clockwork spending its energy. This is the time most people wake and grow. This is the time that I fade.