All Tore Up

When a man gets backed into a corner, feeling desperate, his insides get all tore up. No doctor could diagnose it, but the man is bleeding internally. Hemorrhaging, really. Hemorrhaging pain, disbelief and worry. Bleeding shock at who he sees in the mirror and what he doesn't see in the bank account. Amazement at the smiles on the faces of those who would destroy him and surprise on the faces of those who would support him.
It can shake a man from lethargy, give him a new definition of life. A more practical one. A definition that drops happiness, relaxation and enjoyment to the bottom of the priority list and rockets a paycheck earned at any cost to the top of the list.
Hope is the only cure for this condition. Hope as a concept is pure. One of life's rare pure things. Hope in reality is anything but. Hope in reality is tainted by agenda. Other peoples' agenda.
When your body and your mind and your soul and your very existence depend on Pure Hope, what you get instead is hope compromised. Hope manipulated by humans without your best interests in mind.
Dangerous stuff.
You are standing by the window with your cat in your arms looking at the frozen February ground. Guts churning, mind trying to comprehend the incomprehensible, thoughts trying to predict what cannot be predicted, walking the treadmill of interviews, hope inflated, hope destroyed, more interviews. Thinking that a few lessons from Al Pacino would put you over the top on the interview circuit. Sizzle over steak, appearance over substance. That's what they want.
February is the Tuesday of months. Monday is a real day, a day you can feel because the weekend is over and you have to walk back into the meat grinder. It has meaning. Tuesday is nothing. It has no meaning. It is literally just another day. Wednesday is hump day, however you choose to celebrate that. Thursday promises Friday. Friday IS Friday. Saturday is the greatest day of the week. Freedom. You can do with it as you please and know it will be followed by another day off, albeit with compromised freedom, semi-freedom tainted by the looming spectre of Monday.
January signals a new year. But it flows away quickly and you have February. February is nothing. February tells you it is still winter and gives you nothing else. An ugly month. March promises spring and you can take it from there for the rest of the year.
So if you are going to feel eviscerated, February is a good month to do it. The month's vibe is in perfect tune with feelings of confusion, desperation, frustration and anger. Dancing to the tune of others for the potential and the privilege of maintaining your uncomfortable relationship with The Mortgage Vampire.
So you look out the window on a cold, frozen, ugly February Sunday morning and wonder which month will follow. Many lives are rooted in a constant February never to escape. That is the source of the permanent sarcasm, the phony, frozen smile, the spineless, unconvincing projection of a know-it-all attitude. Cold kills, baby - cold kills.
March might be nice. Strange thing to say but March might be nice.
Maybe you can break the cycle and stumble forward into March.
Good luck, Bubba.