To People Who Already Know What I Mean.
It's cold again and it's inevitable. (I've just taken off the gloves I was wearing, not because my hands aren't cold, but because the bulkiness interferes with the pen.) But like i was saying, it's cold again. The cold that makes the sidewalks and parking lots slippery, though I wouldn't call it icy. It either inspires or detracts reality or the stripped down reality of emotions. Emotions like happiness are forced to change. To smile with your teeth is to have them suffer the cold air. So you smile with just your lips. Is it a different kind of happy?
The sky at night, when it has that violety hue, when you know it's gonna snow? It has that tonight. It's gonna snow I can feel it.
So you sit in this coffee place. If you had the choice it's be trendier, maybe warmer (both in overall atmosphere and temperature,) but as long as the coffee's hot. There'd be posters of cool bands, local bands, or bands you haven't seen (heard?) before, something at least other then signs showing you things for sale inside the store you're already in. The art wouldn't be sent from a corporate office but from someones mind/soul direct. And if you didn't like the music they would have, you always have your handy ipod (or discman, walkman, what-have-you.)
And when you look outside (oh to look outside!) it's a piece of living art, the parking lot a live, drive-through nativity. The frost on the trees, the steam of breath, the scarves, the Christmas lights. And it all seems so far away. Like Norman Rockwell and George Orwell had a long talk about dystopia and Christmas in the same sitting. The coffee stains even seem charming.
You think about the girl who still won't have you and convince yourself you're better for it. You think about God and His marvelous winter painting and how you're still alone in it. And of how the fire in the bookstore next door (or any fire really) will die down and leave the room cold all night and how long it takes the embers eons to burn out and turn to ash. The hearth's proximity to the heart. And how it all relates to hope, and hopes mystery. How when you said you loved her she didn't say it back, but it doesn't, can't make it go away.
David Bazan's cynicism playing in your headphones is yours to share. And inspires you to finally pick up that guitar.
P.S.- It just started snowing. Told you.
