2-4-12

There is two and a half feet of snow surrounding my house, blanketing my neighborhood, and muffling the asphalt and lawns beneath. It's like angel food cake, spongy and white- untouched by dirt or footprints. I have this infantile longing to envelope my hands in it, taste it on my tongue, just jump in.

But, I have not even touched it yet. I've been under self-induced house arrest for the duration of this storm. Depression (though circumstantial, fortunately not chemical or hereditary) is strong enough to keep me inside, acting like the nonchalant teenager who has no intentions of burying my foggy head in the crisp snow.

This bad mood itself is like a two and a half feet thick blanket sitting on my head, swaddling me like a caccoon, inhibiting my limbs from movement. However, it is not milky white and clean. It is filthy with anxiety, guilt, lethargy, grease and grime.

Sometimes I wish there were no neighbors to judge me, because I would without a doubt throw myself into the snow, roll around until my sadness was rubbed off clean, then wave my freed limbs around until I'd made an army of angels to protect me.