In Dure

The app says sunrise comes early, but when you wake your window is all snowflake swirls and impending slush. Your heart beats with courage and brazen optimism, but how quickly it deflates in the face of the world. You read old entries, try to pinpoint the day when it turns, when life returns, try to calculate countdowns and prepare your soul for the days remaining. Everything is a babystep, and you are constantly toppling over.

In the corner of the room, a word processor waits patiently. It does not freeze with the storm, it does not drown in the dark, it merely waits for your fingertips to thaw, merely waits for a dusting of magic to roar to life, to weave its colors, to open a door. If you cannot change reality, perhaps you can escape it for a while.

Perhaps this is how you live a life.