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On Winter
It's dark outside, as if the world has suddenly fallen into a past-midnight hush, and the breeze that sings gently against my window lulls me into quiet contentment. My head begins to fall forward. Words appear, slower and slower on the flickering screen before me, and then they trail off. I stop typing. Sleep, if have you grace, descend upon my weary eyes!
And it's only 6 freaking 55.
I hate winter. Where did the bloody sun go, anyway, and who gave it permission to just up and leave like that? Goodness!
My tiredness could be attributed as much to Dance Dance Revolution as to the lack of sunlight; I just played 21 songs (23 if one counts the ones I quit) on light and standard mode, and though this sense of pride swells within me, so swells also my profound weariness. Mmm, there's a giant orange pillow behind me right now.
If I ignore my goal of 25k, and my plan for action in Northern Uganda, and my plan to watch West Side Story, I could just drop my head back, take a deep breath and...
Ahh.
Well, that was a nice three seconds. I'm off to locate caffeine.
WordCount: 20130. Or something like that.
And it's only 6 freaking 55.
I hate winter. Where did the bloody sun go, anyway, and who gave it permission to just up and leave like that? Goodness!
My tiredness could be attributed as much to Dance Dance Revolution as to the lack of sunlight; I just played 21 songs (23 if one counts the ones I quit) on light and standard mode, and though this sense of pride swells within me, so swells also my profound weariness. Mmm, there's a giant orange pillow behind me right now.
If I ignore my goal of 25k, and my plan for action in Northern Uganda, and my plan to watch West Side Story, I could just drop my head back, take a deep breath and...
Ahh.
Well, that was a nice three seconds. I'm off to locate caffeine.
WordCount: 20130. Or something like that.