Drag

There are days that begin too early, following nights filled with dreams. This kind of day starts, not with a pleasant stroll, but a tedious drive. On a day like this, duty calls for sitting and staring, not walking and watching.

Some of those dreams are the ones in which you are trying desperately to arrive somewhere on time, but your legs are heavy, somehow fused to the ground. There is the clag of defeat. Later, when you are seeking a moment to think and write, you feel stagnant in other ways. The words drag like the hours.

It is worth observing this seemingly endless hitch in the day, the failure to stride or flow, the pull of tiredness and February’s end. It is possible to notice it and still stretch back to yesterday, when light hit the horizon a mintute or two after the clock hand said it should. There were yellow daffodils and the grassy scent of spring, and you breathed it all in like a drug.