There’s something strange that happens only on certain winter nights when the clouds hang low in the sky, catching the city lights and transforming them into a muted aurora that can be seen glowing dimly from miles away. And it’s nights like these that Winter spills beyond the borders we expect to contain it, the ordinary magic of silent snowfalls and icicles that refract the sun into a thousand rainbow shards, into a realm of peculiar enchantments that turn every shadow into a trembling brush stroke, every dash of color into a poem in some long-forgotten language. Nights like these, I love Winter most of all.
From the Archives: a series of posts originally written during
the first nine years of my life with chronic pain
August 2006 – May 2015