Dreary February

For being the month of lovers, February is definitely dreary and nothing so lovely about it--well, except the name.

By this time of the year, I've had enough of snow, cold, bitterness and the darkness settling in so early that it feels inescapable that we're imprisoned it's dungeons of betrayal. I get anxious for March to come around, though that's hardly any better, ever. The snow that keeps piling in front of our door is rather discouraging and we've slowly pulled into ourselves with our situation and all, and well it being Madison and being too cold to actually do anything within walking radius of the city.

The holiday season is over, everyone's bank accounts are broke, and the cheeriness is gone. Everyone is in the mode of self loathing and possess the attitude "let's just get over winter, shall we?" and have let everything else go to hell. Everyone is depressed, everyone is stressed and we've been imprisoned in our blocks of buildings we've created for shelter, security and privacy. Too much privacy. I doubt anyone has seen one another since Christmas parties.

February puts me into depression just by existing. Thankfully, it's a few days shorter. Why? It beats the hell out of me.

Count Down to Christmas

As Christmas draws, I find myself impatient for the start of a new year. I've never been able to understand why new year is at the dead of winter, where everyone is too tired and too cold to even care about celebrating, and the night falls far too quickly and way too snowy to accommodate for traveling. Or really, for walking.

I know some people get fueled by the holidays, the count down to a new beginning, but I find myself reflecting, withdrawn, confused, internally disabled and well, stopped caring enough the markings on my calendar. Meaning, I just let go. I let go of myself, my house, my hobbies, and even those reflective emotions I've been festering leading up to this point in the calendar year.

I've been seeing the depression slowly creep up. I've perhaps been working too much--there is obviously no doubt about that--but even so, I've assumed this persona of a "Bitch Goddess" where I must make money and cloak myself out of this world, where I've become a sheep for the tax industry of the capitalist. Money in the long haul is a disenfranchising thing to think about, where it leaves me hanging and a harrowing chest pain, I can't seem to numb away with my awesome mind powers (that are nonexistent). Because really, my soul begins decaying and my body just tells me, kiddo, it's time to pick shit up. It never has preferably sat with me, or settled in, always leaving bitter after taste, although not as layered as a glass of

Cabernet Sauvignon.