Winter Wonderland

My Awesome Life

The city’s on lockdown right now. Somewhere outside these thin, old walls of my dorm God is throwing a bitch fit in the form of the most ferocious snowstorm in New York’s history. Classes were canceled midway through the day. The subway was shut down. Cars were forbidden to roam the streets after 11 p.m. It’s some serious shit out there.

But I don’t see shit. The only windows in our suite are fenced on the inside by crisscrossing iron bars resembling the door of a bird cage or a fucking prison, presumably to prevent us from jumping out and smoking weed on the awesome balcony. Damn it, NYU. So the outside just looks like a black mess. And inside the heater’s amped up so high that we’re all wearing shorts and t-shirts. Actually that’s just me, but everyone else looks pretty warm too. It’s hard to imagine that the sidewalks and trees and parks are steadily accumulating over 30 inches of snow as I am typing this. I hope the homeless folks have found shelter somewhere for the next 20 or so hours.

My personal feelings about snow are a bit conflicted. Until late afternoon I walked to and from campus five or six times. It was cold. Really fucking cold. Especially when the goddamn wind went ape shit on my face. But once in a while the coldness and the snow would feel really refreshing, really good. One second I’d be grinding my teeth and jamming my nails into my palms and the next second I’d feel rejuvenated. All of a sudden the cold stopped being menacing. It’s kind of like the feeling you get when you’re about to be frozen to death and this intoxicating warmness envelops you, making you sleepy and happy and shit, and then when you fall asleep you never wake again. Yeah, if you’re reading this obviously you’re not familiar with that feeling. But it’s weird. I’d dread walking out of the building every time class ends, but then I’d remember those nice little moments in between the truly awful ones and it would immediately feel less daunting. And besides, snow can be quite beautiful.


Black Out

Bedtime Stories/Fiction

I rolled down the window and threw my joint out onto the highway, relishing in the chilly midnight breeze that slapped me across the face.

Driving alone at night was remarkably therapeutic. No sound, no images. Just miles and miles of blackness stretched out infinitely ahead, ornamented by a million yellow and red dots swimming in opposite directions, parallel to one another.

It could be a metaphor for life: hopelessly optimistic souls wandering through a seemingly endless journey so bleak and pointless that eventually they started praying for the end they had always dreaded. But then again, in our narcissistic little heads anything could be a metaphor for life.

Twenty minutes later my headlight was the only one illuminating the darkness around me. Maybe the weed was fucking with my head, but I never realized until now just how many shades of black existed at night. The stretch of concrete illuminated by my bright yellow headlight looked silver in comparison to the road behind the car. The outline of trees bordering the highway was so dark and dense that the wavy hills in the background faded to an ink blue. And the sky, the only thing that was truly black, became a gentle gray backdrop to its darker counterparts.

It’s all about perspective. Now that’s a metaphor I was hopeful for.