It’s overcast and slightly sprinkling. You absolutely love this weather. It inspires a sense of creation inside of you. You know there is so much you must do, but you shove it aside to write. You move your computer into the kitchen because that’s where the biggest windows are. Outside, the deciduous trees are starting to fall apart. You’ve taken it upon yourself to write everything in second person now. It consoles you. It lets you believe your life isn’t really your own. It lets you receive a certain melancholy joy that comes with anonymity. You can step away from yourself and try to believe in an invalid objective point of view. You can hide in this narrative because it’s less real. Like a psychic or a lawyer, you know the answers before you even ask the questions. You’ve gotten good at feeling this way. The sun outside fights the clouds. You secretly root for the clouds to win. It’s afternoon but it feels like morning. You’re already back from work. You already have so many things to do. If you can make it through this week, you figure everything will be fine. But you know this week will be hard. “Hard” puts it lightly. There will be an unbearable desire to retreat, to sleep off the years, to reject all that you have created and all that you live for. It snows one day a year in this town. On that day, when the snow hits, it melts away immediately. You barely have time to enjoy it. But even still, it’s the one day all year you anticipate. It’s your Christmas, your birthday, your anniversary. The sun moves from the clouds. The clouds move from the sun. The windows become brighter. “This is my life,” you think to yourself. It’s cyclical. It’s evasive. It’s a chance to fail and try again and fail again and try once more and… …and fail once more. Something in the air reminds your nose of the way things were. You yearn for the past while rejecting the present. The future holds no condolences. It will just be. Like the trees, you are deciduous. You are starting to fall apart. |