The snow thaws, noncommital rain wearing away at it without purpose. You wake with a weight on your chest, your inability to step up to the moment when the moment doesn't move you. This lack of bullheadedness does not serve you like you wish it did. You dream of flying to Africa but being a disaster at check-in, it's just another way of telling you the same thing.
Get it together.
But January is as January does. You wake late, your mind a syrup, your bones unable to muster enough oomph to even feel guilt. You dream of walks in the forest, of staring out of a window for hours, you know it won't hold. Perhaps it'll pass. Sit with the discomfort, an older version of you yells but it's no good. The discomfort doesn't want to be sat with, it demands action, attention, demands violence.
You are weak
You give in
There's always tomorrow,
you think to yourself,
knowing full well that one day,
There won't be.
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