I have not felt like writing lately.
There has been plenty of typing, but I have not been motivated at all to actually pick up a pen and write something on paper. I wish this wasn't the case, because I don't much trust my memory for things I don't tell anyone.
I may not remember, even next year, how last week I picked up and took a little trip and didn't tell anyone. Which is something I promised I'd never do again. Not after a certain incident in Philadelphia a few years ago. I also may not remember how my moods and emotions have been drastically fluctuating for just under a week. I hope, at least, that's only hormonal.
For me, this winter has been nearly unbearable. Mother Nature teases with her quick rays of sunshine before yanking them back and choking them out with her clouds...a day or two above 30 degrees, then we are plunged back into frigidly dry ice-walls of cold air.
I don't leave the house unless necessary.
I eat too much chocolate ice cream.
I sleep too late in the day.
I don't care enough.
On Tuesday I forced myself to go outside. Armed with my digi, I took some photos of the neighborhood under the blanket of snow that fell Monday night. Everything was a dull white and grey. Even the red, blue, yellow, and brown houses neighboring mine looked bleak and colorless. I tried - I really did - to see the beauty, but the snow seemed contrived. Hollow. Dubious.