Every part of me feels dry. My hands are chapped; my lips are peeling; the skin beneath my nose is raw. The inside of my throat, usually moist, scrapes against the back of my tongue. It's winter and five degrees outside. The heat is on full-blast.
Despite this (because of this?) I'm feeling almost chipper. I enjoy January in spite of itself. It's a knuckling and bucking down time, a span in which the ordinary business of eating and exercising and keeping head and home and heart together feels missional.
There is so much wrong with the world. Yet despite that (because of it?) we keep on making promises to ourselves and to one another. The breakage comes later. In February, perhaps, with its tropical lilt.