This one is really old too. Seems to be a theme today.
It's always worse in February.
The clock begins to thaw just enough that I'm aware of time passing, just enough that I become restless, just enough that my blood begins to flow. I'm no longer content with hibernating, with sleeping, with waiting in my frozen limbo.
I keep screaming, "Wake up! Wake up, the whole world is waiting for you!" But all I can do is hit the snooze button one more, two more, three more times. It's about as hard to fall asleep in February as it is to wake up the third week in July when there is no breeze to speak of and water is made of glass.
We all seem to be made of glass these days.
I know I promised I wouldn't apologize anymore but I can't seem to stop. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. No, look at me, I'm sorry. No, look at me, can you see me? Am I already invisible? My skin is tingling, can you still feel my heartbeat? I might be dissolving. Can you keep me here? Keep a tight hold on me. Look at me, no, listen to me. Am I coming through? This is Rogers to God, Rogers to God, can you send me a miracle? Over.
Because it'll be a miracle if we get through this in one piece.
I'm following the rules. I'm keeping all toes behind the line, both feet on the floor, and both hands over my mouth, and I always comes before E, except after C and on select politically correct holidays, right? And I always come after you, but only when I remember that I shouldn't be selfish and that cheerleaders are people too. Too bad I always seem to forget. I forgot your birthday and I forgot to tell you that I found the perfect pen. Too bad I forget everything that I don't write down and most things that I do write down, but it's not for lack of trying. It's just that I'm a bit preoccupied. I'm trying to find the words to put you down on paper so I can keep you on a corkboard with a pin stuck through your beautiful chest, wings outstretched.
Look everyone. Look what I caught. Ain't it a picture? I named it after me, this is . It's mine now.
But wait, I'm being selfish again, aren't I? I forget that I can't just take everything that I want. Nothing here really belongs to me. Not the lake or the grass or going barefoot in the summer. Not the cornrows in your hair or last year's locker combination or Jason Mraz. Not even Shawn Mullins and the third week in July.