I should go out and work in the yard. Like I said I would. Like I planned to do. Because the forecasted high forties and sun seemed promising compared to the rain, the clouds, the snow, the chill of my Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. After clogging the drain and then breaking the pipe stole my momentum last week.

I see the blue edge of the deceitful sunlight that makes the world through the window look warm. And the mock orange wrestling with the wind. The cold seeps up my legs, through the soles of my slippers and double layer of socks, coagulating the motivation I tried to raise in my chilly limbs.

How is the maple tree, when roused by spring, so full of life to not only burst forth green but also give gallons to be boiled down for syrup?

I’m tired.

No matter how many vines of brambles I cut back, no matter how many l can tear from the ground, it won’t be enough. My own indefatigable Hydra. Taking down my trees and stealing my lawn. Adding to the inhospitability of this place I failed to make a home.

I can’t defeat it. I’m not strong enough, nor do I have the proper tools. I’m not even sure what they’d be.

I might be a little bit depressed.

Anyway… I type that a lot. Mostly in messages to a friend. A segue, no, more awkward than that. A transition. Or braking to shift gears, or make a turn. Between what is or isn’t, and what needs to be. From the feelings that overwhelm into the relief of having spilled them, of being heard. Or from the way things are to how I will… what? …deal with it? manage? try? An indication of DESPITE…

Anyway… For the moment, I write. I pause and take a selfie of my mood. And share a page of my journal rambling with you.

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