It’s March 10th. Mario Day. Mar10, get it? We’re officially in double digits, people. This is the time of the year where I always feel a big swell rising off in the distance. I don’t know if I purposefully put it there, but it’s always spurred on by me thinking about the Ides of March. That date has always meant something to me since the day I learned about it. I can’t even remember if I read Julius Caesar in high school, and I don’t feel ashamed in saying I had to search the web to double check where the phrase even came from. Oh, Shakespeare. Duh. I’m an idiot.

It’s fine. I’m still working with Last Month’s Brain. I’m inside all the time. People keep telling me it’s a gorgeous day outside, which it has been these past two New York City days, but I haven’t experienced it. I’m just inside my apartment. I go outside when it’s time, but I’m not going anywhere after that. Why would I? There’s nothing out there for me. At least that’s how it was last month.

But it’s March 10th. When did that happen? All I can remember is some guy has been president for fifty days and we’re all pretending that whatever he’s doing is fine. Right? C’mon, man. I don’t know anymore. I’m not fully sure where I’ve been the past couple of weeks, but I’m looking at myself right now and I’m not thrilled with what I’ve got. Don’t get me wrong, I have a lot that I’m grateful for, but I mean specifically me. My body. What happened there. Eeshk. Did I do too much damage? It’s not looking pretty. No one’s gonna fuck you in this state, what have you done to yourself?

Those questions are starting to become nothing more than background noise. Because it’s beginning to feel like nothing is inescapable. At least, not forever. It’s always going to get found out, no matter what it is. Yes, that burnin’ fuckin’ question you have deep within your soul will be answered one day. Whether or not it’ll happen in this lifetime, I cannot say. But it’s always going to be revealed one way or the other. It’s inevitable. You just have to want to seek it out.

But first, I’ve got to get off this damn couch.

This year began in a lockdown. Last year did not. The few months we’ve had this year stopped having feelings to them. They all just sort of blended in with one another. March was one of those months that always felt a little spooky to me. It was like Halloween Junior. Anything could happen in March, and anything usually did. I’m just not feeling that lately. C’mon, March. Do something. What could you possibly bring to the table that we haven’t experienced yet? We just went through a global frickin’ pandemic for chrissake. How could you scare me more than what I just experienced did?

Well, those Ides of March are fast approaching. They come up quicker than you think. We tick off each day on the calendar like any other day of the year. The constant forward march of time is also inevitable. It’s our only guarantee. Time will go on, with or without us. And I’m just not as prepared as I usually am. I’m slightly out of shape and more cooped up than I’ve ever been. Plus, there’s just no one here to go out with. New York indoor dining is returning to fifty percent capacity next week, something that would be fun if I had someone to call up and go out with. But the pandemic taught me that people have their own stuff going on. I can reach out, but I will understand when the call is (inevitably) not answered. All I can do is try. And right now, I want to try and get to that place again where I’m the more active one. The one who actually reaches out too. I sit back too much because I don’t want to bother anyone, and I do that when I’m feeling the least positive about myself. So if I change all that around, maybe I can flip the script and actually gear up and go out, and even bring people along with me.

I’m sure I’ll do it. It’s not February anymore. The seasons are changing out there. The ice is melting. Winter’s chill will just have to find me some other day. It’s something I have to let go, almost. I’ve found comfort in the cold, wrapping it around me as I sit here on the couch. It’s so easy to feel sorry for myself and let the never-changing seasons consume me. But I’m discovering that moving around feels so much better. That it can actually be fun to exercise. That cooking for myself tastes better than any food delivery could. And I needed to come to these conclusions on my own, not because I feel indirect pressure from faceless internet people who demand I do better for myself. Progress is only a thing if you make it so. And I just want to continue making progress, no matter how small.

It’s not February anymore. The pandemic’s all but over. They couldn’t keep that going forever, could they? It had to come to an end one day, didn’t it? Nothing lasts forever, does it? Change is inevitable. You just have to let it unfold as it should. Beware, but be aware. Just like Shakespeare would have wanted.

2 thoughts on “but it still feels like February

  1. Hey gines!
    Out of curiosity have you read a book called White by Bret Easton Ellis? The guy who wrote American Psycho. I thought it would be one of these woke books but apparently it’s about someone who’s very provoked by all of the division online and in the media. It was recommended to me .

    Like

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