April calls for some mental spring cleaning. I don’t know when it happened, but something’s amiss. Dust bunnies have flourished where I used to feel more creative and energetic. This didn’t happen in the last week, though I’ve made the new kid I started tutoring my scapegoat. There I go again, picking on those innocent little fourth-graders.
Maybe it’s that the weather gets sunny and warm for a bit. Then it pulls an about-face, forcing out the scarf and tights again. Sometimes this occurs in a single day, morning and night like two different poles. I’m so tired of the flux. Give me freckles and squinty eyes from the sun and a trickle of sweat behind my knees while I wait for the subway. It make me feel more certain of something.
Or maybe it’s because I’m between seasons in a different way. At this point, neither of us has talked of what exactly we are doing with each other. There are no titles or too many plans. It’s presumptuous to assemble scenes of what could be, even if only next weekend. I’m half-heartedly fighting some clear designation, straddling two different places. This unnamed uncertainty is the only mess to which I’d commit. But I’d prefer to do it in short sleeves.
Certain as the rain that pummeled my dormant air conditioning window unit last night is the fact that I need to change something. This bud needs some sun before it can break. There must be some kind of metaphorical window or I don’t know, metaphorical seedpod or something that needs a good wrenching.
But I’ll probably just tidy up my apartment.
