February is a blue romance

February | noun

the second month of the year, in the northern hemisphere usually considered the last month of winter.

ORIGIN: Middle English feverer, from Old French feverier, based on Latin februarius, from februa, the name of a purification feast held in this month.

I was born in February, therefore, I’ve always felt a vague but strong connection with this month. If I’d been born in June or November, I wouldn’t have identified with it as much as I do with February.

Today the weather is terribly cold. The humid air completely numbs my senses, turning me into a congealed fish. As I notice the clouds eating half of the tallest building in the city, I recall that February is coming. My February, my month, my winter. My season drown in mist.

I want to read something, so I search for poetry about February. But all they talk about is the month of Saint Valentine, of roses and broken hearts. That’s unexpected to me as I’ve never thought of February that way and I never will. My month doesn’t have the figure of romance, but of serene solitude. And if there should be a love story, then it would be a quiet and inconspicuous romance with a suspended ending. Of too much desire, in too much repression.

I learn from the dictionary that February is the month of purification. In other words, as my friend – my dear February friend from childhood – said, “we are saints”. I smile at the idea that we were born to save humans from themselves. I don’t really know what it means, but it sounds appropriate.

So February is coming and I’m freezing to death like a congealed fish. Maybe they were right about the Valentine thing. February might be an intimate season, but not for those who were born in it.


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