Manic Frustration “If I do not write to empty my mind, I go mad.” ~Lord Byron

During the day, the ice drips from the overhang outside of my door at work. The gutter is useless as the ice creeps over it no matter how many times I knock it away. It says, "You can't keep me from weeping," with its out-of-sync drip-dropping. I've stopped knocking it down, now. At night, the icicles turn to freezing sleep.

Austin, TX

Everything seems covered in a blanket of ice from here to Texas. My bones feel frozen and as stiff as those horses. These are slow, crawling days. Like glaciers creeping along valleys through time.

It's a wonder how any of us make it through the winter without going absolutely stir-crazy. Without succumbing to the blankets of ice ourselves.


I wouldn't mind the snow so much. Those beautiful nights when everything is still and large flakes fall from the sky like feathers. An ethereal pillow fight. It's the bitter cold. The ice. The driving and biting winds I can't stand. Stepping outside my door is a challenge.

When I was a kid, I loved winter. It meant sledding and days off from school. Snow forts and snowmen. Hot chocolate. This past Christmas brought me some of that joy again. I cling to that moment now with every bit of strength I have. The woman I love and her beautiful children were close. My best friend was still here laughing and smiling. Everyone seemed so happy and calm...and I finally felt at peace again after so long. Happiness. I hope it's not over.

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