I have reasons to feel depressed when I first wake up. My dog is dead, the rent is due, I’m flat broke and I’m too old to expect gainful employment in an age averse market. Not that I would accept it from any of these gulag operators.

The future’s uncertain and the end is always near. Coffee won’t help anything on these mornings.

It’s a struggle to quell the constantly negative chatter going on between my ears when I first open my eyes. I struggle not to think.

It feels like everything I’ve written or produced the day before is drivel, as I tell myself this pattern of thinking will disrupt itself on the road and in the gym.

And it will.

Soon, as my body starts to move, my muscles fill with blood and my rubber meets the road, endorphins will flood my brain and I will thank God I didn’t resort to my baser instincts and start deleting yesterday’s epiphanies.

Blood will soothe my achy knee caps as my heart rate increases. A light coat of sweat will cover my body as brain fog dissipates. Then all will be right with world. Or, at least start making a little more sense.

Every day that I overcome my initial waking thoughts is a win in my column. It sets the tone for the only day that matters. Instead of pulling the covers over my head, I overcome that little bitch in me that wants to roll over and play dead.

There will be time for that later. For real.