Minutes tick. The calendar inches forward. Lovers are kissed at midnight. Newly forged promises are broken within hours.
I have grown used to this time. I have come to expect it.
The peak of joy—or tension (or both)—that accompanies the orgy of sweet treats, unbearably fatty meals, and the overwhelm of giving and receiving, generally sends me into retreat. It’s too much.
A fresh blanket of snow covers my mind. It seeks out hibernation.
The year comes to an end, but my year has few weeks left. It’s convenient having a January birthday. It gives one a little more time to set a vision for the year. To make plans. To resolve. To hope.
I have some belated holiday stories that I hope to get to soon. I have been thinking a lot about the stories I tell here and the way I tell them and why I frequently abandon them, or keep them only for myself. I am not sure what I want this place to be, or to become. I don’t know how comfortable I feel being honest about my long road to recovery, which right now feels pretty much at a dead end. I question the value of writing about my child, beyond allowing those who care about her but who don’t see her every day, a chance to follow along. I suppose I don’t know if I’m willing for there to be enough of me, enough of my life, exposed to keep it the center of my writing.
I don’t know what else there is.
But it’s January. So much self-doubt creeps in during this month. I know. I have felt its weight before.
I press my index fingers to my lip. The skin is warmed by the shush of humid breath. There is no vibration. There is no voice. Jthere is only the stagnant air of exhalation. There is only the quiet.
There’s a storm in the forecast. My pores erect the hairs on my arms. Preparing for the impending cold.