I sit here, just past midnight, with an empty mug beside me; my breath milky like a drunken infant.
Fidgeting at the kitchen table, jumping between open windows, trying to dull myself enough to sleep. I don’t know if it’s a reverse seasonal affect disorder or what, but there is just something about this time of year. I wonder, perhaps if it has something to do with things being in bloom, all that reproduction in my face.
I feel sad. Frustrated by the changes I cannot push myself to make. Frustrated that I have to be in such a position.
I wonder if maybe I feel the start of my own transformation. Is the uneasiness I’m feeling all because I want to shed something and grow? Am I able to? I feel stifled at my job. I enjoy the work, but several changes beyond my control are deeming it worthwhile to again look to see what else is out there. I fight with my own sense of loyalty, wondering why I should stay.
The damp weather affects my mood, and the gray skies I’ve woken up to the last few days match my eyes. I keep the tears in, but just barely.