There’s nothing friendly about January.

January is the loneliest month; maybe that’s because December is the least lonely month – it’s surrounded by food, and family and friend visits and hope and peace on earth and songs and decorations and fireplaces and chocolate and gifts and extravegance (I mean… that’s how it’s always been for me). Typically in December, you don’t notice the darkness, or the cold, or the soulless metaphorical blood-letting of winter time, the dryness, the bitter sting of those mornings where it’s -30. All of this in December, seems like cozy magic. In December all of my troubles feel so diminished, they are pressed into the foreground, like dead flowers in the back pages of an old dictionary.

January to me, ends all of that. It is a divider between what is full and good, and what is representitive of darkness, loss and the return of those nasty thoughts and voices that are so consolable over frothy hot chocolate and Christmas lights. You think everything is and feels alright, that you are still anticipating everything and then you get that email, which tells you something you didn’t want to know, that you are certain will end the fairytale and the good feelings. You walk to work every day in the dark and the days are short and the brutally cold nights carry out into the mid-monring, and smokestacks emit thick synthetic cloud cover that sits steady and unmoving in the air like a cruel, un-wavering bout of fog. You tell people things they don’t want to hear and hear things from within yourself that you didn’t want to face. And for me, ever since I can remember, that has been January. That’s what January means to me.

So today, January is over and tomorrow is the grand commencement of month #2 of 2011 which has in the past, never been a wonderful month for me either. And I realize that making it through the depressing prolonged dull rheumatic winters in Edmonton is depressing. And anything that happens within that long, agonizing span of time simply adds weight to the shoulders of one walking within it.

I’m just glad I can dream of what’s to come for just a little longer. It’s my last chance to do so before my stagecoach turns back into a pumpkin.

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