Snow falls hard and graciously in unforgiving winds onto dark streets. The flakes are thick, the kind that stick. The pretty ones that will hopefully stick, and that mark everything they fall on. Snow feels like a new beginning, but I don’t feel new here. I don’t feel anything, though. So, I know I am new.
When someone who feels so much feels nothing it’s dangerous. On this night, almost everything is unforgiving including me. I’m a mess of white and dark, and I am wet with every inch of nothing that I feel so thoroughly. I’m kissing solitude sweetly and swiftly with each pen stroke…
Lately, I find myself wanting to be alone. There are these moments where I see I never am and it feels like my dependency is bringing me downward, quickly. I wonder, was I really that afraid to be alone with myself? Now, all I want is to be alone with myself for a day. I’d like a full day with me without anyone else. I want myself, my pen, and a place to write down every ounce of heaviness that is weighing me down. Only then will my shoulders be released. It will dry me of this feeling.
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