February. Okay. February is… almost here. It’s lurking. It’s just around the corner, waiting in the cold, dim hallway of the year, holding some cheap, heart-shaped candy and a groundhog.

I noticed it this morning. I was making coffee, because that’s what we do, we make the coffee, and I saw it. A sliver of sun. Actual, honest-to-god sunlight. It was hesitant, like it was apologizing for being gone so long. “Hey… sorry about that whole January thing. The gray wall of sky? That got away from me. My bad.” And then, as I’m standing there, blinking at it like a confused mole, it’s gone. Replaced by a flat, white, featureless lid of clouds. Classic. The sun is just teasing us now. It’s a cruel, celestial co-dependent relationship.

And the world? Globally? The world is a group text that’s spiraled out of control. Someone started a thing, and now everyone’s replying all, and the notifications are blowing up your phone, and it’s all just anger and panic and misspelled words and nobody knows how to leave the thread. You just put it on mute and try to breathe. But you can feel it vibrating in your pocket. The chaos. It’s buzzing.

But here’s the thing. The weird, grinding, absurd thing. We’ve still got to get up. The sun is a flake. The planet is having a very public, very noisy nervous breakdown. And my dog still needs to be fed. He’s not concerned about geopolitics. He’s concerned about his kibbles. I still have to open the laptop. I still have to do the work.

What is the work? The work is the thing you do in the space between the crazy out there and the crazy in here. The work is the tiny rebellion against the pull of the void. It’s saying, “Okay, fine. The fabric of reality feels thin today. But this invoice needs to be sent. This email needs a reply. This paragraph needs to be written, even if it’s garbage.” The work is the rock you cling to while the tidal wave of news churns past. It’s not noble. It’s not always meaningful. Sometimes the work is just moving piles of dirt from one side of your life to the other.

But you do it. You make the coffee. You look for the sun. You notice February creeping in, with its short, demanding little span of days. You feel the low-grade panic of time passing, of things being broken and loud and unresolved. And then… you sit down. You do the thing. Because what’s the alternative? Lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling? I’ve done that. The ceiling has nothing new to say.

So we move. We fumble forward. We bundle up against the chill, both the one outside and the one in the airwaves. We find a weird comfort in the ritual, in the grind. The sun is a flaky friend. The world is a mess. February is coming. And I’ve got to finish this coffee and go figure out what I’m supposed to be doing with my life before lunch.