winter skies, february blues (my favorite color is you)

"But then- it's December. I always feel this sort of way in December. There's something unforgiving about the cold- and now I understand why people and their actions can be described as cold- the same way heat is relentless. But summer- you know it's hot, know the air shimmering is a sign of an inhospitable environment- but in winter, the air is overwhelmingly clear, and it doesn't ever let up. Summer is now- winter plays the long game, lets some of it set in first, fools you with cheer and associations of Norman Rockwell- then, easy as falling asleep, you're left wondering if you've felt warmth that didn't smell of smoke since November."

"I was happy- happy- months ago, it feels like, and I know it's not true but I don't know how much longer it'll take [...] bad things are only bad because they go on for a long time and you can't see the end, until it's already behind you. Don't turn around, not yet. Call me Orpheus. I find myself, my Eurydice, every year and yet it still amazes me a little bit." 

Happy February. It's February, again, and it is hot, hot, hot in my part of the States. There are fifty of them, and I sometimes despair of this one, but everywhere else it is snowing and here it is sixty-five degrees and crisp when I get up in the morning. It might bother me ordinarily, but I have something (someone) new to keep me warm.

I'm going to write. I have been writing. So far, this is the best part. It's been three weeks since I locked it down with my- is lover the right word? partner? in crime?- and I have been writing so, so much. I thought that maybe I had forgotten how to write- fiction, songs, poetry, anything. The snippets in this particular blog post are all from December's journal entries. 

"Do I speak too much in metaphor? I don't think so. That's the part of me that's still devoted to English literature, the part that can't imagine a life without meaning in everything. But everything makes sense together; the complex interplay of calculus and literature, the physics inherent to music, the elements of history present in everyone I know. Maybe it's a sign of exceptional madness- but then, I am not blessed with exceptional genius- or rather, the exceptional single-minded drive behind every genius- and for that I may be considered lucky." 

Recently, I've been thinking about writing again. There's an appeal, you know? I have to write, eventually, for my portfolio project (see cloverfieldsmedia.blogspot.com).