I feel like a rubber band that's been pulled taut for months. Soon, the weather will improve. Soon, the sun will be out frequently. Soon, I won't have to worry about how much heat I am using in my apartment. It all feels like it should be happening now, that the thermometer's inching skyward is happening far too slowly. We are at 46 and always holding. I want the fifties, then the sixties, then the seventies before my rubber band self snaps.
This is what I hate about living in Michigan. When the sun and the warmth finally do return, I feel guilty with every moment that is not spent sucking it up with every availiable stripped, exposed, unclothed pore of my body. It makes working and writing very difficult. But I know - a part of me always knows - that the sun will go away again and it will be gone a long time. My body knows it and it inflicts me this overwhelming sense of obligation to get out. To go rollerblading, to go biking, to go running, to go walking, to move move move move. Be in the sun, it demands. And this would be a good thing if it wasn't coupled with a crippling knowledge of its temporariness. It makes the whole thing a little unliveable. It really is time for a new state.