crowings

Wherever I have gone, I was sure to find myself there
You can run all your life, but not go anywhere

When I think of winter, it's usually cloves and peppercorns floatin atop hot apple cider (and whiskey), the pine-infused smell of roasting logs (and whiskey), standing triumphantly above the clouds at whatever snow resort I happen to find myself at. This year feels different somehow. Those feelings are all still there, but in a different way, more grey and nostalgic. So, it must be time to go off in search of color.

Before I can do that, however, I have a set of hurdles to get over, most of which are intellectual (the personal ones I tend to take my time with). At any rate, I'm looking forward to going home. At home the winters are frigid, and you must cling to others if you hope to find any warmth at all. In that way every winter is the same there, as are all the people, although their faces may change. I can't think of anything more comfortable.

The weather here has been unseasonably warm lately, to the extent that some of the younger, more foolish trees have prematurely blossomed. It must be embarrassing for them to be left in the cold now, their fragile outcroppings bared forth and withering on a false hope (must be that fucking global warming). I wonder if trees can blush, anyways.

With this many people in the world, there isn't any reason to be cold.