Rainy day doldrums.

The air was crisp, the sky a shade of blue-grey which seemed to be disputing whether the clouds would part and allow the sun to shine through, or burst, saturating the shuffling bodies below.

To the most vigilant among us, the balmy breeze carried jumbled sensations. There was the unmistakable jovial nature of the marginally organized horseplay. Yet, the undercurrents of insincerity and hostility were evident. The feeling of bridled furry has become familiar. The hope that a remedy exists for unseen wounds has become a decayed yearning.

In the diner, the waitress emits an aura of broken dreams and failed potential. The french toast is bland like the unfulfilled promise of the day which lay before us. He purchases breakfast for the mother and her young son at a booth in the corner as an anonymous thank you; their contagious and innocent enjoyment of one another infecting the negligable number of patrons sparsely populating the eatery.

The lonely ride home is an exercise in restraint. The tears come too easily, and once they begin, cessation will be elusive. The evening ahead will be full of obligatory smiles and banter. The bulge held in my pocket late in the evening as I drive home will not be enough to generate a respite for the financial oppression which lingers overhead like an ever-present and pregnant storm cloud.

Still, the morning holds promise, tomorrow budding with potential. The sun will once again crest the horizon, and with it will come a new beginning, a cleaner slate. All that lies between today and tomorrow are unformulated dreams.