03 3 / 2014
The mind of a writer can be a truly terrifying thing. Isolated, neurotic, caffeine-addled, crippled by procrastination and consumed by feelings of panic, self-loathing soul-crushing inadequacy. And that’s on a good day.
28 2 / 2014
Why do the seasons change? She asked with her hand clasped in mine, our fingers awkwardly intertwined with the fat gloves we were wearing.
I smile and shrug, hinting annoyance at this extended winter we were having (snow in March - March!).
Don’t you want it to change? I see my breath form and as I spoke the words, I thought of how the melting snow marks the beginning of the end. How time, unlike winter, does not freeze.
Hands clasped tight, feet in the snow, we fell cold and silent.