Dear Winter,
I've had enough of you, truly. Enough rain to fill a small lake, enough fog to sustain San Francisco for weeks, enough dreariness to sate even the most irritating emo-kid's appetite for the mediocre, enough work to sustain those with 35 hour work weeks.
I've had just about all I can take and I just can't take any more. Case in point - I've been in this building for 16 hours. That's just today. Yesterday I was here for 11 hours. The day before it was a measly 8 hours (note: that was my day off). I remember a time when weekends existed. I remember a time, possibly long ago - it surfaces through the mists and swirling clouds of my memory in small firework bursts - when there was a lovely glowing orb in the sky, where my joints didn't feel as if they were being forcibly compressed in a vice, where the air didn't taste recycled.
Now, the only light I know comes in fluorescent tubes, buzzing with the effort of replacing Apollo's rays. The papers upon which I gaze, hour upon weary hour, dance and mingle in my vision until they are merely a ball of black and white. The pops of neon color that grace this bleak landscape are artificial, placed in an attempt to soothe my last, frayed nerves. For a while it helped too, but that was when I thought I had control over all of this. Ah, what a fool I was. Presently, I see the power that this annual moment of repose, of death before the rebirth of spring holds over us all. Whether consciously or unconsciously, we all bend to its power. We soak in with our daily tribulations each and every one of its raindrops, and behind our eyes float its clouds.
Some might call that sentiment beautiful. Maybe even cathartic. Not me. I've been in this building 16 (going on 17) hours. I just want to fucking sleep.
Sincerely,
Actively Convincing Myself Not to Cry
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