(no subject)
Snow clouds are the hardest to imagine. Where I'm from, we are used to gray smears across the sky; a thick and almost mucous-like fog that hangs above our heads and threatens to ruin every kind of fun. But these perfectly formed clouds, heavy pregnant with bales of snow, seem a little too well-shaped, a little too distinct across the azure sky to be real. They're not my menancing and ill-formed clouds from home. They're friendly. And yet I can't shake my discomfort.
The snow is sprinking outside my window like bonemeal from the hand of a more divine gardener. I press my fingertip to the window, making dots on the opaque condensation to pinpoint the bigger clumps. I streak faces in the mess of it: happy, sad--which am I? I blur them all out with the broad palm of my hand.
Something has snuck up on me; I am not used to it. I haven't felt it in forever, and the feeling is so stupidly outside of me that I can't quit explain it. Infatuation? Suddenly I am tickled by the possibilities. Suddenly I pine for home.
What sentiment a change in scenery evokes.
The snow is sprinking outside my window like bonemeal from the hand of a more divine gardener. I press my fingertip to the window, making dots on the opaque condensation to pinpoint the bigger clumps. I streak faces in the mess of it: happy, sad--which am I? I blur them all out with the broad palm of my hand.
Something has snuck up on me; I am not used to it. I haven't felt it in forever, and the feeling is so stupidly outside of me that I can't quit explain it. Infatuation? Suddenly I am tickled by the possibilities. Suddenly I pine for home.
What sentiment a change in scenery evokes.