Buried in the Snow

Sometimes, it is as simple as a metaphor. Sometimes, it’s the truth. Sometimes, as Magritte said, “ceci n’est pas une pipe”. This could be a representation of reality. Or as Poe suggested, perhaps we’re living inside of a dream within a dream. My life feels surreal lately. I took a train to an unknown city, and I spent last week exploring it and trying to decide on the meaning of the word “home”.

It has snowed. Holidays have passed, and yes, I have cried. But the crying can be healing. I have read my oracle cards, and I feel they offer some hope. They speak of transitions, the fire that has been tamped within, they mention new beginnings, learning, and becoming.

I want someone to reassure me it will all end up okay, but the truth of the matter is we won’t know til we get there. I have often said I don’t want this to be a diary, but I have found myself sitting on snowy ice more than once, contemplating my choices. It’s hard to create when you’re focused on survival. Today has been okay. Today, I actually made progress on the story I’m working on and took notes to brainstorm things.

I know sometimes, I need reassurance but sometimes wish I could give it as well. I don’t know who will see these words, but I want to tell you that it will be okay. It’s not easy, but life isn’t meant to be easy.

Now, back to the writing.