The sun will rise across this frozen plane again. This field, that was once elysian, now is still. It's almost a mirage, as it sometimes isn't there. When it is. It is. Undeniably there. A strong presence. Walking along the field, slipping and breathing. The cold makes me feel warmer. An adventure I say. One that I know will end.

What I want more than anything else is for the reaper to allow me to see what could have happened. On the precipice of life changing minutes, I can't help but wander what would happen if I followed my heart instead of my head. I never would have had to say goodbye.

I have to ask how. Walking through the motions of another day. Something not right caught my eye. The death has been creeping along the face of the world. So why would a window be open? It's smaller than nothing out there. Anything left to live is slowly breathing it's last breath. Such is winter. She gives you opportunity. Life is sacred then. So when the frame passed my head, and the shadows flew threw the air, no hope was left in sight, until my past cuaght me up, and I found the ground with both legs this time.

When the world is freezing over, when the gauges stop working, when we approach real zero. That moment is when I remember the last summer I spent. The times luaghing with friends. The times worrying about whether or not she likes me. The times exploring. But the tundra takes that all away. And now there's a blank canvas.

Everyone tries to label what they believe in. Their ideology, its in the books. Everyone reads the book of life but not everyone contributes. Oh how wonderful to read a book without reading it:. A lazy afternoon, hazy remembering of a long dead story. In bits of jealousy I envy those people. The readers. They enjoy for the sake of enjoying. These words, those books, are my own reading my own written story. I just want to put the book down and read. Here I am, sitting in a spot that's comforting. I'm tired, I'm cold. I'm imagining you reading this, the ever present reader I'm so wary of. I'm imagining you as I sit back with a sigh after writing this. Thinking back to my past when I thought I could write to you better. I'm sorry reader, sorry that I'm not a good author. I'm sorry that I ever thought I could be. I'm sorry I feel jealous of you. I'm sorry I had to write this. But more than anything else? I'm sorry I didn't read.

I hate writing. I hate the way it makes me feel. I hate that it makes me sound pretentious. I hate how it is making me pretentious. I hate how it brings back things I want to forget. I hate how I can't write now. I hate how it's the only thing I have. I hate how it makes me feel better. I hate how I write. I hate who I write these too. I hate that I'm writing this. I hate everything about my writing. But it's the only thing I could never live without

Every thing we do has an opposite outcome that we push aside to do what we want. Sometimes we can't do what we want. Sometimes we have to swallow our pride and do things that are expected of us. Sometimes we have to give up our dreams of being free so that others can sleep soundly at night. Sometimes we have to make the best out of bad situations. Sometimes we just have hold pillows over our faces so nobody can hear us scream. Sometimes we get into crazy situations that we can all laugh about. Sometimes we get really angry at happy people. Sometimes we are those happy people. Sometimes we stay up to late so we can't think the next day. Sometimes we sleep to much so we can't be aware. Sometimes we feel more alive than ever. Sometimes we forget how to feel at all. Sometimes we forget that not everything is a choice. Sometimes we just need live.