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the snow journal

    It was cliché to talk about being lonely while surrounded by people, so she didn't. Besides, the solitude was getting louder and easier to dance to, locked away in the cramped motel rooms with the slow internet. She simply waited, waited for something to happen. Something did happen. Snow. It came quietly, stealing in on tiptoe. One morning she woke up, and it was just there, unassuming and with little fanfare. It simply arrived, drenching the grey dirt of the city in a facade of clean and white and glittery. People brushed it off their cars, complaining about the choked up morning commute and the
flu they all had (though some didn't realize it). Like freedom was a place to get to, the snow rushed on through the city side streets and brick alley ways, emptying a path through the “I'm fines” and “everything's okays.”
     Forced to stay inside wrapped in layers of blankets, she tried to write, but the words grew confused on the page and refused to be sorted into neat left-to-right rows. Since she began trying to force her very self into the ink, she had realized that she had never known her heart at all. And so, she decided to write about the snow. Designating a particular notebook for this project, she wrote on the front in scrawled cursive “the snow journal.” Every single day from the mild middle of December to the raw, biting days of January, to the tentatively hopeful days of February when the crocus shoots began peeking out the ground, she chronicled the snow. Well, the precipitation, really, because during the January thaw a driving rain killed the snow, and the resulting muddy water swirled down into the city drains. Still, a few days later, the cold was back and fresh new snow covered the dirt and dead grass and cracked pavement.
     By the time March came, she had stopped worrying about putting her heart on paper, focusing instead on only writing about the weather. On the day when the last patches of lingering snow succumbed to the steady heat of the sun, she decided to look back at the pages and pages of writing she had scratched into the notebook. All of a sudden, everything came rushing back in a torrent of thoughts and remembering and...heartbeats. All this time, when she thought she had forgotten about her heart, she had been discovering it. It was infused into the words, intertwined with the ink swirls and dots and strokes; hiding beneath the grain of the paper, peeking through strong and stronger as time passed.
     Now she knew. It wasn't up to her to try. She simply had to write about real things in an honest way, and her heart would come along in its own good time.  

  + a little piece of fiction that the recent snow brought on. But then again, maybe it's not entirely fiction.