To anyone who doesn’t know her well this would seem like
depression. She seems to lack motivation, having to force herself to do her
basic household chores. The days grow longer and the sun has some warmth in it,
but that warmth does not reach into the aching joints of her hands.
It is March; she sits idly gazing out at the bright day
knowing it’s all a lie. “No Mister March, I know you all too well. Far too
often over the years I have fallen for your lies, but not this time.” The Ides
of March? No, the lies of March. March dangles a bright sunny day before her
eyes, but she doesn’t buy it.
In the past she would have, cheerfully leashing the dogs,
grabbing a light coat, and heading for the hills only to be caught in a sudden
snow squall and spending a week coughing and sneezing for her trouble. No, she
will wait for April, or perhaps even May before putting away the wool sweaters.
Still, the dying winter sits heavily on her shoulders, her
bed unmade, her dishes unwashed, and her blog post late; her knitting lying
idly in her hands. Who is this poor tormented soul?
Why, it’s Prudence MacLeod. Depression? No, just Prudence
between writing projects with too many voices in her head, too much time on her
hands, and too many aches in her body that normally get ignored. March is
always like this for me. Once I get fully focused on a new project it will all
change.
In the meantime, rather than bitch and whine three times a
week, I will only post here on Sundays and Thursdays.
So, see you next time folks; I promise to be more upbeat on
Sunday.
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