December
I kind of like the way I feel in my red little mittens. It's the most precious I've been in a long time.
Although the ground is always cold, it never snows here. I keep waiting for that drop, the miraculous event of precipitation, but it always fails to appear. Sometimes the sky is orange-opaque. I pretend the snow is coming, but I am, unfortunately trapped in a different type of chrystal ball.
No, I cannot predict the future, and no it does not help to wish. The snow will not fall. I get so excited in the event of hoping. -Like this snow fall is my revolution. It's a sign that something is happening in this world that makes a difference to me. This snow is the transformation I need.
When it all dismantles, the snow is not revolutionary. It never has been before, and I get the feeling that this opaque sky is not the glass that irritably entombs me. Snow is just an excuse to look forward to something when I honestly dread it. I dread it because I really fucking hate snow. I hate cold feet and wet ankles. I hate tromping around and squinting through the white just to see. I hate the loss of virtue we witness with snow once cars drive through it and piss taints it.
Snow is just an excuse to look forward to something, and I feel so afraid that it really may snow. All my hopes will be built up and exhausted to the point of nothing. Snow will fall and nothing will happen. This feeling won't disappear, revealing that it truly wasn't snow at all that made me anxious.
Snow is just an excuse to cover up what I will never admit because snow is easier to scrape of the windshield than my thoughts.