Calendar Fog

It’s snowing / no, scratch that: it’s foggy, a claustrophobic fog. Either way, I still have to scrape the windshield and this morning, as with every other morning since the Ides, my hand wants it to be 20 March. A short circuit somewhere between head and hand, perhaps, or screen and head? Can’t ascertain any personal significance 20 March may possess though, clearly, my mind will most likely to explode when it actually is 20 March.

(Returning to these daily pieces as a method for unsticking my mind in the midst of this back and forth from caretaker to writer, from selfless to selfish. A new challenge, I suppose.)

Reading: SILAS MARNER, by George Eliot