Snug as a bug in a rug

Does the world seem off to you? Spinning slower, dragging its feet? Perhaps it’s just me. Perhaps it’s the season not just in between change, but actually changing. The darker mornings, the darker nights. I feel so unsatisfied today like no matter what I do or eat or accomplish it still isn’t enough. There is a mass silence across everything except my street. The cars still flash by before dawn the same way they did in the summer. Except this time, I don’t feel excited to wake up anymore.

I tip-toe around creaky wood floors, down the stairs. We haven’t turned the heater on yet and I worry about the radiators I’ve never used before. They will work, I’m sure of that, but how will they hiss, clink, keep me up at night. I feel like pulling an all nighter tonight. Write until my fingers bleed. Is that what it means to give yourself to your art?

People are beginning to hibernate. And that’s OK. Some part of me wants to hibernate too. And then the other wants to yell at the top of my lungs that I don’t want to fall in line and wear wool socks, close off my hands with mittens, feel cold in my bones. But I suppose it’s not up to me. I may be the last one, but I’ll soon have to wrap myself up and start dragging me feet as well.

I feel like crying all of the sudden for things I can’t control. For the cloud cover, for new hurts of new people that turn out to be old hurts they can’t wrangle out of. It makes me sad that it even exists at all. It makes me sad that little old ladies wait to die after their husbands pass; that men still can’t figure out how to love their women in ways they deserve; that people are so lonely in their lives they threaten suicide to a home lender at a local bank. There’s just too much out there this week. Maybe hibernation is best. Maybe it’s time.

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