Still working through that bag of Christmas blend coffee. Still lamenting shitty weather. Still not getting enough sun. Still sighing when looking at the bank account. Still feeling a little bit alone. Still not remembering to call home. Still taking the same prescriptions. Still working on writing the same novel. Still working on the same poem. Still working on the same song. Still working on the same painting. Still trying to finish that one large book. Still not exercising enough. Still not eating right. Still smoking. Still sober. Still seeing the same people. Still making the same jokes. Still working the same jobs. Still making the same money. Still thinking that this will be the year that things change. Still 27 years old, but I’m marching towards 28.
I’m marching towards March. I’m marching towards an exit from this series of three months that always seem to slow time and burden every facet of existence with fatigue, and dunk consciousness into a vat of ether that twists everything good into something wicked and strange and painted with hues of grey that deaden the senses and the will to keep going. No wonder nobody keeps resolutions, no wonder nobody is happy in these months. No wonder the suicide rates go through the roof; because from any vantage point during these months, there is no hope, there is no colour, there is no productivity, there is nothing to keep one going except the knowledge that at some point these months will end and spring will have to come.
It’s raining all the time. I don’t get to wear my sunglasses, and I’m always bored.
I can name my discontent:
It’s time like these when I wish I had some kind of great romance in my life to brighten all these discontented hours. But would something like that survive these months? Or would we spend all of our time in separate rooms, lamenting the presence of one another, and thinking that on top of all the bullshit of this slog, is the fact that we can’t stand being in the same room with this person, and that the sex is getting worse and worse, and that the way we chew our food has finally gotten so annoying that I insist we eat only soup for dinner?
Would all of those problems be cast aside though by a loving caress? By the feeling of them curling up behind me as I lie in bed and drift off to sleep? Would waking up to a smile make me forget that it’s February?
I think this is why I bought plants last week; the idea of keeping something alive is something that will motivate me when I cannot keep my drive, passion, sound sleep schedule, resolve to write more, resolve to read more, resolve to go through my old clothes, and my resolve to stay positive have all died on me and been given cigarette butts for tombstones.
My succulents are healthy. They are growing. Eventually, if I hold on, I will be the same way.