The past month.
Writing, constantly and obsessively. Pages and pages and pages. No fewer than three separate word documents on my screen at one point. Five research essays each week; memoir 15 page increments; and dreaded poetry. I like to think all of this writing is helping me and that I'll grow from it, but most days I just feel like I go to my computer and write to get the required pages out. Most days are starting to blend together to feel like 'eh' writing days.
Snow, predictably inconsistent and exhausting. One morning, it wakes me up gently, coaxing me outside with its elegant fluffy layers, and the next it's all been replaced by swaths of ice and slush. I hate the slush and ice days more than anything. On mornings when my walk to school feels like living in Narnia, I feel light. But those February ice days, man. They're getting to me.
Friends, uplifting and necessary. Pains in the ass some days. Important, always.
Crocheting, because for every moment of chaos and panic, there is always something tangible I can create and hold with my hands when I'm done. That is everything when it feels like everything else is swimming.
Homework in bed when there isn't time to cuddle and watch movies. Reading when I've finished my homework and he hasn't, curled up on my own side facing the window in my room where you can see a hint of the Bitterroots. Back tickles between page turns.
Head and the Heart. John Butler Trio. Lorde. Lake Street Dive.
So, so ready for a new month. February, as I've decided, has been the best of the best and the worst of the worst in terms of everything.