Snow of Consciousness

There are things I should do -- a dishwasher to run, laundry to be done. But how can do I anything when it's snowing? No matter where I rest my gaze, it turns back to the sliding glass door. It's late afternoon, dark blue, and snowing.

The TV is off and the blinds are open. "The weather outside is frightful," but there's no fire in my tiny apartment. I do have a candle warmer though, the lamp kind, shining down on a sturdy ceramic mug full of cinnamon wax melts. The mug's mate is nearby and full of chai.

I have stories to write and demons to fight, but what can you expect of me? It's snowing. The day is empty as the ground is white. Remember snow days when little-me would go play? That doesn't sound very fun anymore. It sounds cold and wet and a little lonely. Bah humbug.

You'd think a peaceful day with a pretty snowfall, blissful silence, and yummy smells would inspire me. In spite of it all, in spite of myself, my mind is totally blank. Any thought, creative, constructive, or even competent could break the spell.

I give up, don a headset, and unplug the laptop. I make a nest on the stiff carpet and lean my fleece-warmed body against the frigid glass. The cold feels like connection. Somewhere on the Internet, my friends are playing games. I can be there, and I can be here; alone together on a lazy, snowy Saturday.