I woke up this morning and Montreal felt like home. Siz hours sleep and The snow was right, the fallible plans for the evening, the christmas music leaking up from the street. Everything, click. Out there somewhere is a boy who likes me, and I like him, and out there someone laughed when they walked past snow that I had tramped all over in a childish glee. Out there is a city with no pressure, a piece of land attentive to diversity in a way that the language monoculture doesn’t touch.
Walking on snow feels like walking on creaking cotton wool. It’s soft, but somehow the smooth texture catches on itself. I’ve been falling into unmarred pile drifts of it since Thursday. Just tipping myself backward until the white powder ground has caught me. Unreal, I keep saying it’s unreal. The sense of suddenly trusting the earth is novel, a cellular structure worth of edification.
Typing’s so difficult on so little sleep. I’m not sure of spelling as much, my grammar begins to decay, words begin losing cohesion like entropy coming down like heaven. Flakes cold in my lashes. They fly as if feathers to land in my hair and cake around the cuffs of my ankles. Magic and another name for wonder. Light, these crystals, the sun comes up and smooths them out. The wind comes up, flash and glitter. Pulling a white rabbit out of a hat two minutes too late, because I’m already leaning into gravity backwards, holding out my arms as if I’m being crucified, as if I’m reenacting the feeling given to me on a digital platter of my last two relationships. Then the cold catches me, it cradles my body, the perfect pillow formed exact to my specifications. I fit into the cavity made from giving myself up, pretending for a moment that everything’s all right, and I smile. I want to fall asleep, content in the knowledge that one day I too will die and all of this will have worked itself out and into the next generation of fools who think they mean something.
