There's a certain level of theatrics that come with crying over the bathroom sink. The inescapable reflection in the mirror, the years of watching protagonists break down on cinema screens, understanding the ritual and yet being unable to take it seriously, how it bubbles out from your deepest recesses. If the darkest month of the year ends now, it sure is going out with a bang. I sat down at the typewriter for solace but remembered the faulty ribbon feed and proceeded to take the whole thing apart until it wouldn't come together again.
That's what I do.
I break things and cannot fix them.
The Universe presents me with gifts, and I squander them. February tries, tenderly, to offer little sprouts in the ground, a few mild days and sunshine, and all I do is dig myself deeper under the covers. The Word evades me, the Answer evades me, I am left with sand in my pockets and a weight in my chest, the years are rushing much too fast for me to walk this slow.
The rain recedes. I venture out. Wonder if tomorrow will look different, under the banner of another month.
Why would it, when I am just the same?
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