Don’t quote T.S. Eliot. Don’t quote T.S. Eliot. Don’t quote T.S. Eliot. Don’t quo APRIL IS THE CRUELLEST MONTH.
April is the cruellest month.
Sorry for being cliche. But I actually really do hate April. Anyway, I wrote one of my college capstone papers on T.S. Eliot. My email is “the_hyacinth_girl.” My first short avant-garde film featured a recording of T.S. Eliot reading “J. Alfred Prufrock.” I have certain rights when it comes to referencing him.
Spring feels like a physical fight for me. I keep coming out all scratched up, dirty, sweaty, red-faced, covered with grass stains…my hair is disheveled and full of twigs, my eyes are watery, my head hurts, my legs hurt, I really feel like I’ve been rolling around in the dirty grass wrestling with spring.
Spring. My enemy season.
Focus, gone. Serenity, gone. Patience, gone.
My brain is not adjusting to the shift in seasons. I have intense feelings of inadequacy. I can’t rejoice in the little things because I don’t even deserve to while other people are suffering. Small changes make me break down.
Spring is overwhelming. At moments I feel like it’s getting better, but then I’m just back on the ground struggling in the grass and screaming.