writer craze

I am hanging on to strands of beauty. It’s winter, or it’s almost winter.. I’m not sure but I know it’s cold. In Spanish class they say November is still Fall, and they’re probably right.

There’s just nothing doing it for me this year. I run from my car to buildings, from buildings to my car.  My skin comes in contact with the freezing air for a few minutes and it is miserable. Yesterday it was raining, and that wasn’t beautiful at all. This morning it was raining. It was gray. A boy from my class said time seemed to be standing still as we walked outside to help our professor move things from one office to another. The incentive was having to write one less paper. Time is standing still. I am always reborn in the Spring, but I don’t think I’ve ever died so early on in the season. Dead. I am not dead but I am going stir crazy.

My mind is content, discontent, sensical, insane. One minute to the next. I am not content, but when are we content? Oh talk of content or travel. Fuck it. I’ve fed up to the imaginary HERE with that kind of talk. I could be very content here. And most days I am. Or, most parts of most days I am content.

But it’s cold and dying outside. And I feel the cold straight to my core. And I am not warmed by much, other than select few memories and some words I talk outloud to myself. I am warmed by sleep, by Thanksgiving break. I do nothing as of late really. Nothing beautiful.

Talk to me. Someone. I am closed off. I am unguarded. I am vulnerable to the World, and I think that if I just cleaned my room and read a little I would feel beautiful again.


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