Welcome, March. I was supposed to choose a new form for you, but I haven’t yet. I’ve been sitting here, leafing through Turco’s The New Book of Forms, trying to decide on one, while my coffee grows too cold to drink. Now I’m cranky and no closer to knowing what I’ll be writing next. How was this a good plan?
Remember how I claimed to love form? exult in structure? Me too. So much better to explore that than theme, right? New month, new form: what could go wrong?
I could go wrong. Life could go wrong. I could let myself be distracted by all the things I’m not doing. I could find myself swallowed by the depression that hits hardest this time of year, leaving me feeling like a cobweb on the ceiling of God’s forgotten room. Waiting for a window to open and blow me away, or a broom to find me and end the waiting. No form needed.
I struggled through February to get here. Now I’m content to lie in the mud, staring at a cloudy sky, pretending I remember what it feels like to be lost in the stars. I hate the parts of me I see reflected in the worst of our leaders. How badly to want applause for just existing? How low a bar have I set for myself? How cruel are my thoughts, even if I never speak them? How vain am I? How destructive at heart? How callous? thoughtless? ignorant?
Who am I to judge anyone else? What can I possibly say that has any value whatsoever?
I will choose a form, and I will keep writing, because I don’t know what else to do; and I have to do something, or my thoughts will swallow me whole. I will write my wispy words. I will cling to the ceiling until I fall or am blown away.
Welcome to March.