 |
| There's white snow on the branches of white birch trees. The light from the streetlamps creates highlights on the powerlines. Some people shoveled their sidewalks too early, and now don't feel like removing the thin layer of snow covering their stretch of city property. The power poles have signs on them, telling us how dangerous we've made our lives. All the food I ate today is already in the toilet, and my limbs don't really feel like moving. My toes twitch and I look through my warped windows at the darkness that isn't dark enough. In the city at night, there is no sky and I begin to forget that it could ever be blue. But my heater is running, creating all the white noise it can in a vain attempt to keep me alive. A snap somewhere in the house made me flinch. Sometimes, when my eyes are closed, a sudden noise will cause colors to dance across my eyelids. It's something that can't be forced or predicted, and it will never last long enough to grow stale. Other things stay too long and you're left wondering how you got yourself into it and how you're going to get yourself out... Is there anything in this head of mine? Anything precious? That needs to be said or brought to fruition? It's going to snow again. And the plows will come though again. And I will shovel again. We'll all be doing this again, sometime in the future. |