Snow. Mountains of it.
Winter makes me anxious.
How the cold restricts your movement, your freedom, even your though processes.
To see what could be free-flowing water frozen on the side of the street-
on pause; waiting.
That which doesn't die goes into hiding.
Nothing moves except the ever-present wind across Sackville's rolling winter tundra.

I used to get through by imagining warm sand and the blue-green water of a summer beach
Now I clench my teeth and wait it out.
Looking from one week to the next- ignoring the present in the hopes that if i ignore it long enough it'll get tired of sticking around unnoticed.
Is time like a lonely kid? Will it sulk away, or persist like one of those who doesn't know they're lonely?