I’ve started projects over the winter. I haven’t finished them. I’ve been a huddled, crouched ball of unhappiness, but have not imploded to a sticky, condensed, macabre ball in the corner. Not yet. So that’s something. I’ve still been going to work, what work I have—although more often than not the thought of heading out to meet it fills me with terror. That’s something, too. I’ve still been talking, walking, laughing, even when I don’t feel like it. My appetite remains, but all it demands of me is coffee and chocolate cupcakes. I miss the sun, but not enough to have shrivelled up and died. I’m just a little wilted; a little atrophied. I am less than what I was.

But not nothing.

And spring is round the corner.

February is the worst month. They all say it: landlords, aunts, doctors, accountants, waiters, grocers; also, the loved, and the lovelorn. Family pets complain in great, heaving sighs; people you have known for years throw themselves into the cranial cavities of immense, metal beasts that lumber through the air towards islands that sizzle in the sea like bacon in a pan; it’s not a rational, but it’s true.

It’s almost over.


~ by A Mundi on February 26, 2010.

One Response to “february”

  1. Come and spend future Februarys with me. It is sunny here.

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