I was mired. Stuck out in the snow. The cold kept me indoors, where I stared myself down and didn’t like any of the results that stared back. Winter seemed endless, as did my problems and issues. The words I would try and write would come sporadically, and a good few pages of prose became as regular as a break in the shit weather.
This city no longer made me happy. Calgary sat there and poured me drinks when I shouldn’t have been drinking and told me I would always be stuck here and I would always be miserable.
At least it wasn’t Edmonton.
I was sleeping too much. One look out at the grey city blocks, swirling snow, and bad traffic kept me cowered in bed for weeks and kept me slow and weak. My life wasn’t mine anymore. I felt outside my own body, and my daily movements were as frigid as the weather.
I looked out through the window at the snow falling again, harder today than the last. The incense I lit has burned down to nothing, leaving the scent of summer, another detail from times spent in greener places. Another memory I clung to, even as it faded like cigarette smoke on a midnight walk.
I got into self loathing as a hobby and it became a profession. It knocked writing out of that slot, and sent dreams of advancement and accomplishment out into the frost without a coat to die a slow death.
This city was no longer mine, it was no longer where I belonged, and it was no longer friendly to me. The warmth of its boot on my throat was no longer something cozy to warm me as I laid in bed. Yet, I saw no solution. So I lit another cigarette, and got comfortable with dark nights of the soul and hating every second of every bitter grey day.
So I dreamed of escape.
So I dreamed of California.