Letters to Strangers

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Today has been strong. As in no happy medium. As in straight to smiling, straight to arguing. Today I hugged Steven and my shoulder kinked. What's going on, here?

I have been irritated at a baseline for weeks, and for today I felt better when I woke up. Fresh, almost, ready to take on the next few weeks until, maybe, winter ends. The crocuses were coming up in the lawn. So pale, so small. I went on a walk, the sun was shining, it was warm and beautiful, and when I came back out? It was gray and cloudy and cold and my shoulder hurt. What's going on here?

I can't shrug it off. There is so much sadness, and so much anger, and I don't know where to sort it because, for once, it isn't mine. It's becoming mine, and I don't want that. There is confusion on my end, and the same pulsating bullshit that's been there since February began, but that's not going away anytime soon - or so I think, at least. But I'm used to that. That's become familiar and I can deal with it. The rest of it? Not now. I still have a million things to do, and I can't let go of everything else keeping me from it.

Everything feels so false right now. Like plastic; like wax. Not unreal, no, but lifeless things shaped into what presents itself as living.

I don't really know what step to take next.