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March tries to improve February, but something keeps pulling it back to December when everything was so uncertain and busy - and nobody wanted to hear about it then. Nobody wants to hear about it now. There is too much...more than any single month might manage in a year... ...I am obscure...but this is the place for that...my place... Too much what? you ask. Too much happiness. Too much ketchup. Too much lost self. Too much electricity. Too much reading and writing. Too much monkey business. Too much indecision. Too much friendship. Too much sadness. Too much God. Too much fear. Too much paper. Too much catfuzz. Too much sugar. Too much misunderstanding. Too much delight in the silliest things. Too much pressure. Too much pasta. Too much self-inspection. Too much red ink. Too much of that worn down feeling that's not worth talking about because it's everyone's cross these days. Other people's deadlines. The ones I set are sacred. The ones from others are just a nuisance...or worse. March could be the month of the necessary absence, the mental health day as they say. I've never done it...not once in twenty-five years. And yet, I am still not a very good boy...up a tree but not out on a limb. |
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