an existential confession

there is a lot of snow. minor apocalypse out there, snowblowers in full force as the snow collects beneath structured rubber boots. it is a winter wonderland, though an incredibly inconvenient one. the squirrels wonder what the fuck, as the seasons switch on a dime. some days, i feel like getting lost in the piles of snow until my body becomes a frozen relic of what used to be. when my brain feels as though it sits in a pressure cooker, warming and aching and blurring my vision, the cold air becomes more and more appealing. i find myself both lost and found when there is a sprinkle, or a downpour, of white matter outside the bay window. i am enveloped in the existentialism, the gentle reminder that one day the world will end. snow is regarded with fatalism here, as if it is the end of the fucking world when a dusting lies on the road. perhaps this is dark and i am insane; it would not be the first time i have tacked myself with this label.

the snow is still falling. i wonder if i could wander out there and just cease to exist.