Molasses January

So, I've been having those weeks. The ones that don’t seem to be filled with much of anything. Friday arrives, and I’m like, “Oh, you’re here? Well, okay, good.” But not as in ‘Good, I’ve been waiting on you since Sunday ended and never thought I’d live to see you’.  Just… ‘Good. You’re Friday and I’ve been biologically programmed to love you, and I’m glad you’re here because of what you are.’  

But to be honest, right now, Friday feels the same as Tuesday. Or Wednesday. It’s still not on par with a Monday, but I fear that’s the direction I’m heading in. I’ve noticed this lack of enthusiasm lately, and I really can’t pin it down to any one thing. Nothing is particularly bad, or unusually terrible. Things just sort of…are. They just exist without emotion tied to them, pushing me to respond or react to them. So I don’t. I simply exist right along with them. I exist right until Friday, when I wonder where the week has gone, and if I made much use of it.

My theory so far, is that I must be a creature of the spring. As the world wakes up, perhaps I will too. Winter in general provides only a cold backdrop for retrospection. Everything is slower, sleepy. It’s like walking on a treadmill; I’m consistently moving. Always busy, but with no urgency. The road doesn’t end, there’s no rush to get to a destination. As long as I move, at however snail-like a pace, I’ll manage. And maybe in some weird way, this is a good thing. Like a mental hibernation, soaking in all these things that have happened previously and now letting them stew. Seep themselves deeply into my bones, where they’ve belonged all this time anyway. Instead of running; of moving beyond them so quickly that I can hardly remember them later.

I suppose that is my outlook upon my molasses January. It’s sweet, with nothing so very wrong within it, but slow. Thick. When it doesn’t really matter if I just began watching the sap drip from the tree bark, or if I’ve been quietly watching for hours; I’m content to find a log, zip up my coat, and stare into the process for hours. With absolutely no inclination to talk about it.