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A warning about April.

Earlier, I transcribed a draft of a poem on my litty blog extolling the reasons and ways I hate April. Probably, or eventually at least, less pretentiously/tritely than that sounded.

Regardless, here's a bit of a conversation/rant I had that explains my loathing of April as "The Cruellest Month":

(04/01/2011 08:01:51 AM) unwitting friend:
why april?
(04/01/2011 08:09:10 AM) Palmer:
as i just quoted on mah twitter...
(04/01/2011 08:09:53 AM) Palmer:
"April is the cruellest month, breeding/Lilacs out of the deadland, Mixing/Memory and desire, stirring/Dull roots with spring rain."
(04/01/2011 08:10:34 AM) Palmer:
it's when people's hormones get reawakened, all those lovely flowers and cherry blossoms start coming back, and everyone wants to go out into the world and display their coupling might
(04/01/2011 08:11:17 AM) Palmer:
and on other days it's rainy and dreary, giving me time to remember & sulk about how, unlike everyone else it seems, I'm *never* coupled with someone so happily & hornily
(04/01/2011 08:11:35 AM) Palmer:
it's like life is rubbing it in my face, my loneliness.
(04/01/2011 08:12:00 AM) Palmer:
my loneliness and their happiness

I don't mean to sound monster-emo, but that's just how it's always been. I never get to spend my April with someone, share legitimate companionship with someone I care about. Nevermind get to work out all those damn raging hormones.

I will admit there was one April I was in a relationship/seeing someone. That was April '06, when Mani and I were still together. That was our last month together; he broke up with me that May. It was a weird, somewhat strained, confusing part of our relationship, not helped by other frustrations of April.

It's more than hormones, I want to establish. It's also somewhat more than just a longing for companionship, someone to share the blooming Spring and rekindled energy & love of life with.

I don't know what that other thing/element/aspect is. I only think it's there because of how I feel. It's more than just frustrated or lonely or horny or unfulfilled. It's all of those things, too, so it's hard to say what the other is. It may just be some subtly existential worry.

Whatever it is, it buggers me and is unsatisfied. Every goddamn April. An unknowable, embittered malaise settles over me; I succumb to a foregone ennui--learned from years of the same old disappointment and lonesomeness and hurtings brought to a month-long, especially pointed reminder. It's like, all of a sudden I remember it--the urge to find and meet and couple and form happiness--and cannot shake it--the grim realities that it never works out, that all I find are endless let-downs and imploding expectations.

And it sucks. But that's my April. And I've endured it before, if gloomily; watched the happiness of others, if resentfully; and survived. I'll be okay, just don't start wondering wherefores if you see me frowning.

Hopefully, I can capture all or some of this in that poem I'm writing. We'll have to see, and try.


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