Oh, January has not let go yet, has not lost its fierce grip just because its end is near. When I last expect it, here it comes, digging its claws into my unsuspecting softness, tearing out ugly insides I barely knew I contained, dark clouds and bleeding envy mixed me heavy eyelids and petty silence. I turn up the sun lamp, turn up the music, turn off the phone and try to bury myself in work instead of winter, but oy how much harder it is to live than die. Bukowski yells poetry at me like a lifeline, throws wine in my face and I know it's a dream but I'll take it, is this what our parents hoped for us when we were born?
I know, I know this is January, I know this is a world on fire and one day we will come crawling out of these burrows, I know New York will wait for us, I know good things are yet to come and if you counted your blessings well and truly today they would overwhelm you, it's just that you lose your arithmetic when the darkness comes.
They say the storm is coming tomorrow, say it will bury us.
You can do anything for 60 seconds, a trainer yells in my ear.
I wonder what she knows about 60 days and hold my breath until it's over.
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