Fireflies in February

The night sky is a patchwork of stars and cloud mass. Crusty snow lays on the grass and the road appears to be slick in headlights. Silence is everywhere. In the distance, semis cruise on the highway to somewhere else. And I want to be writing.

I woke this morning, and it was rush rush. Before I knew it, half my day disappeared. Before I knew it, my week break is already almost over. I woke up this morning and realized February is a going to be bitch and soon it will be March.

I dream in words; they are like fireflies in the forest, there but never found. I think about the weekend we went camping at Laurel Hill State Park in Somerset. Our cabin was the last in the row closest to the trees. And we stood on the porch and watched the forest light up in yellow-green phosphorescent Morse code. I tried to take a video, but it wasn't sensitive enough. It felt like a million fireflies surrounding us, telling us secrets we wouldn't understand.

I want to be writing. And yet, when the time comes, I find myself lost in another plane. I don't where I am sometimes, at least mentally. I wrote in a journal entry for my one class this last term, that biggest obstacle to writing is myself. Half the time I don't even know why I get in my own way. There aren't enough therapists to go around for that one.

Here I am on this February night, thinking about poetry, stories, Stirling and friends, Holly and friends, while my current favorite songs are on repeat and the silence creeps into my bones, even the oil furnace sounds like it is another dimension. All I can seem to do is daydream about fireflies in the summer.