I pick up the pen and sign my name. It's over. It's done. Nothing can take it back, unless I tear up the piece of paper right now. But I don't. I fold the paper and its compadres and put them in the envelope. Stamp and to the mail box.

Making it official. Making it part of the public record. Making it to the top of the hill. Or the bottom. Somewhere at least. Another step to match all the other steps I've always taken.

First day of spring. The snow is gone. The mess is pretty much cleaned up. They even picked up the trash this week when it was slushy and cold and the earth I live around looked like a whore after a hard day's night.

Inertia kicks in just when I should be doing something. So many things I could do, but nothing seems worth it. I don't want to start anything till it's ready to begin. Nothing seems ready to get going this week. Maybe I should sleep for a few days and hope it all turns around in my sleep.

Earlier. Days ago. The little bit of Irish in me becomes the majority ethnicity in my brain. Awash in the elixirs of the land. Last call for Guinness. Last call for Jameson's. Last call for all the temporary asshole Irish drunks. Friday swims with regret, or at least the need for healing.

The beer tastes better on March 18th than it did the day before.

Can't wait for Cinco de Mayo so the little bit of Mexican me gets its chance to celebrate like the little bit of Irish me. Why is it American holidays are about spending money, but other nationalities get a day of drinking?

Not counting nations of Islam, of course. What do we get on those days? When we celebrate the great victory in the Middle East, will it be a holiday of restraint? A national day of martial law? "No Civil Rights Day?" Whatever, it's another bank holiday.

I make it past all of this to continue down the road I've beaten down to bare ground. There is a secret place I go when it all gets too much. No road actually takes me there. But the walking in circles works.

I make a tight race track around the papasan cushion while the music surges and jumps. The candles flicker and pop. Somewhere in this everything gets worked out. The centrifugal force pushes my brain into work mode. The glass of drink keeps it all lubricated and moving smoothly. The bumps become jumps, and the landing's are hit and miss.

We are breaking down at a constant rate. Aches and pains from days ago still persist, causing proclamations of reform. No one acts on the proclamations. Debates rage, but there is no compromise. The public grows weary, and nothing is done.

I put my foot in the same place it was a few seconds ago. The race track has a diameter of about five feet. I will circle the cushy grandstand enough times to walk a mile without ever going anywhere.

There was a huge lineman on our football team my senior year in high school. He was going to Oklahoma for college. Full scholarship. One of the nicest guys. I never saw him pissed, although I'd heard stories. One day a fight broke out near the history class we had together. My coach/teacher asked the lineman to accompany him and help break up the fight. Imagine using the irresistible force to stop conflict. You can do it if you try.

I'm getting hard to read. I'm masking my contempt with indifference. I mislead more than I lie. I give a little push and you make up the lie. I only point you in the wrong direction. You didn't ask the right question. I'm not going to help you work this out.

I wait for the sun to ripen the year. We're still getting green. We've got a long way to go before the inevitable death of winter comes again.

I stretch and twist and pop all that crap out. I'm ready to get out of this rut. I'm just looking for the off ramp to open up again.

Matt Worley has well worn hiking boots.