March 23, 2003

• I keep a crack in the window at the dead of winter. My bed lies beside. I like how the frigid breeze stabs into my cheeks. At then do I feel wholly renewed, swallowing the cold air. It pierces my mind, clears my head while the rest of me is cemented in folds of blankets. Stuck.
  
  

  It takes a while for me to fall asleep. I do not suffer from insomnia. I just like to think with the wiping lashes of cold air against my face. I never dwell on my life then. I make pretty stories. Lick my lips, the frozen cold collects my thoughts, but the rest of me is warm, buried in blankets. Happy.
  
  

  I think of stories of love, and sometimes I cradle my pillow for that love. I think of stories of hate, and sometimes I sob into my pillow for that hate. I think of green stories, yellow stores, short stories, long stories, splendid stories, indulgent stories, and macaroni and cheese stories. I close my eyes, and my stories are suddenly real. Happy.
  
  

  I think of him. His long fingers brushes against my frozen cheeks, like icicles. All my stories are about him. I go with him on his adventures. I help him with my super summoning powers. I am the spirit he chases day and night. He loves me, and yet he does not know me, and every time he leaves with a lingering smile. Sad.
  
  

  Maybe then the cold will betray me, and his icicle fingers will claw away my dead skin. Layers by layers I am peeled away. My eyes roll, and my perception erode. The pretty colors fall away to their place. Green. Yellow. Short. Long. Splendid. Indulgent. He says good bye… Sad.
  
  

  I close my eyes. My story over. My dream begun.
  
  

  …and there he was. Stuck.

  
  

  • 9:48 pm
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