“Why, what’s the matter,
That you have such a February face,
So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?”
― William Shakespeare
I have February face. Frost bitten, weather worn, sullen. Cast adrift on the storm that is the merging of my circumstances and a world without safe harbors. There’s a gnawing at my bones. I ask myself if this is what a mid-life crisis feels like. The gnawing gets louder…Radish like. Between the wracking, scraping pangs, I can almost make out words… This is the werring… Who’s werring? Mine? Ours? Our worlds? All of these at once? I feel a pent up energy and anxiety I can’t shake. I need to do something. Anything. But what is there to do? I shudder.
I knew the werring was happening. I think we all did. We felt it in our bones like when a storm is on the horizon. But then it was here and we weren’t prepared. We thought it a lumbering thing instead of the hurricane.
I have no solace to give except this. You think you have time. You don’t. You think everyone will be ok. They won’t. Those lovely little passivisms that let your mind glaze over and project that someone else will help, will be your own downfall. If you do not help. No one else will. And when you need help. There will be no one to offer it. This is your plight. Your inheritance. Unless you change shape before the final sputters of the werring.
