Snow

This afternoon, I walked out of my normal Tuesday/Thursday Victorian Poetry class completely refreshed. I feel like I'm back to my old self again and noticing the things that I so vividly remember getting completely over excited about.

Here goes....

It's a beautiful day outside and most people would think I'm going completely crazy. But, despite what others think, I'm most obviously not most people. It's a beautiful day outside in Madison and I couldn't be happier with the way things are looking outside at this very moment.

The snow is falling beautifully from the sky and each little flake, with its own design and pattern makes me itch with excitemenmt. They all, from the sky first slowly, then getting faster and heavier, like the sensual expression of kissing. Each flake kisses the trees on State Street and caresses each of us on the street. It's like the first snow all over again and each one makes me giggle inside thinking of spending nights cuddling up in a blanket to keep warm. It makes me think of you. But mostly, it keeps me confined in the aesthetic components of nature and how uplifting something like a simple snowfall can be.

Under normal circumstances, I would be cursing about having to drive in the snow, but today, even as I walked to my car knowing that I would soon have to drive in it, which I thought would ruin my sense of overjoy, I noticed that not once could I keep my face from formulating a smile. Not the kind that you fake on the street for the poeple you accidently meet eyes with, but the kind of smile that I'm almost embarrased to say is the smile that I get when I'm completely in love, completely flattered, or completely overcome with happiness. The kind of smile that you can't hold back, no matter how much you want to and in trying to do so, my smile only becomes more prominent. These transcendentalist views of nature make me feel like one of the great poets or cannonical writers that I can only strive to become.

Perhaps my writing isn't up to the par of the greatest writers of the romantic era that I so envy, but a writer, I will never fail to be. No one can take that away from me and it is intrinsic to me. It is not extrinsic, something that can be stripped of me. A musician, I once was, and that somehow has been stripped of me, if only partially. Because of my own medical problems with my hands, I have had to compromise my aspirations of being a true musician, but being a writer, I will have no one take from me. If nothing else, I write for myself, for my friends who sometimes listen or read, for my parents who wish the best for me, and for the people who read this and find some sort of truth, some kind of emotion, some kind of feeling that will move them, as other writers have done all too many times with me.