Each morning he would take a pick-ax to the Dawn, machete strokes anchored from the Decending Sickle Moon he, like Night, would show up with blood-red streaks on his ax and hack away at carving another day from a reluctant horizon, which flattened itself away trying not give him another day, trying indeed to conceal, Light and Hope from him.
All he had had to be fought for, pick-axed from scarbble ground and each day the sweaty effort his efforts had to be breach-born into the Light from the Dark.
Till that day, pick-ax in hand, he failed.
He failed to bring even a meager dawn and he sat despondent thinking this was the end, the end of all had come to this.
Sitting at his side Despair whispered to him, "Are you seeing that this is end? Are you willing to embrace me, kiss me on the mouth?"
Despair was beautiful and a part of him loved her so. Some many times he had lain with her, no wallowed in her arms and found comfort there.
Here she was again, at his side, telling him to lay his head in her lap, take some comfort there and once again some part him asked "What is the use?"
Depression and Despair twin sisters these two were more familiar to him than his own family who for the most part were unaware of his turmoil, his daily travals, his agonies.
And he took a deep breath ready to succomb when music came. Some one was playing music. He looked up to see the twins wide-eyed, their eyes betraying fear, and yes, Despair.
He looked around to see who was making the music when suddenly it stopped as she rose from the Pick-Ax Dawn walking, no floating toward them, a slight musical strain in the air as Despair and Depresson stared at her apparition looming in the growing light each looking from him to her, both finally saying as they lelt, "We'll be near if you need us."
She of the dawning light drew nearer and stopped twenty feet in front of him falling silent.
He said "Who are you?"
To be continued