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I step out, stunned by the vast expanse of whiteness. Sunlight refracted back at me off every single, perfect snowflake. The world is white and pure, contrasting sharply with the desolate black mood simmering inside me. It may be beautiful, but it's also miserable.
Some thoughtful but stupid person has been kind enough to dig a trench from our driveway to the sidewalk, I slide in as gracefully as I can. Snow and ice pile up to my waist on both sides, higher in some places. I feel as though the world could cave in on me at any second, when suddenly I break through, back into the wide open expanse of the road. Not plowed, but flattened enough to walk on.
The sun is still low in the sky behind me, and my shadow is a million miles long. I am a giant, I can overcome this. I take a few steps, my boots crunching down, further compacting the snow beneath my feet. I am painfully aware of the solitude out here, not a single person or animal besides myself moronic enough to attempt going outside.
My mind wanders - I am an explorer, a polar bear, the last survivor of a nuclear winter. Suddenly a crow caws out, mocking, startling me out of my reverie. I stumble. Fall. Bite my lip. The bitter tang of iron fills mixed with the bitter tang of the cold air floods my mouth. I get up, dust myself off, all beneath the amused and disdainful glare of the crow, impervious to this mess up on his powerlines. I am beneath him, in so many ways. In a sudden flutter of black, he's gone.
I keep plodding. I would argue that I've walked vast expanses, miles and miles, but any casual observer would argue that it's only been a few blocks. I turn the corner onto a main street, and with that one simple gesture, the spell is broken. I am no longer the last woman on earth, I am surrounded by sludge and filth and noise, toddlers screaming in the cold, plows grinding and scraping to expose the asphalt once again. I join the queue waiting for the bus, and become me again. Cold, cranky, and impatient.
 Moonblossom · Mon Mar 10, 2008 @ 04:48pm · 2 Comments |
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