feb

All of a sudden, it’s February. Aspirations and plans, along with nagging questions of summer, are sprouting all around me. I feel left behind at the bus stop. The air is growing hot and heavy—there’s no longer a need for the comforting weight of a winter coat. It’s February again.

Time isn’t slowing down. I remember my seven-year-old self crying about getting older as her birthday approached. She was too ahead of her time. Everything now feels unsettling and uncertain. I can’t keep my houseplants alive. I’m starting to believe I’m not as bright as I once led myself to believe. I can’t breathe.

February. I cringe when I say my age aloud, feeling the weight of wasted time in my bones—yet I’m still so young, with so few wants. I wouldn’t even know how to emigrate to Australia if I wanted to. It seems easier to lie in wait for spring, to feel the awkwardness of the clocks changing, than to acknowledge the here and now.

February will come and go. I wouldn’t have even been awoken to it had it not been for the date flashing on the bus ride home. The Valentine’s Day displays barely nudged me this year. I’m scared of limitless potential, yet grateful to be held back. Time is a concept I can’t challenge. February is an idea I cannot change.