I hastily reach the end of the hall, eager to enter my room. Opening the door, the brass handle makes me shiver. In the winter, the heat seldom reaches our rooms downstairs, and lately, it has only gotten worse. Upon coming in, my eyes flit across my room. I realize how messy the place had gotten from this past week. The smell of old coffee percolates throughout the space, and I can barely see the floor. Clothes, half-empty soda cans, and books litter it. A hodgepodge combination of candles, gum wrappers, burnt matches and lip balm lie on the vanity, as well as some scattered papers. I implore that I will tidy up later. I know I for certain will not, but the notion is comforting in the moment. This habit has continued for the past six days.
Outside my window, the strong winds whir and whistle, insistent on entry. The yellow streetlamp stands still on the powder-white sidewalk, waning. The flurries of snow are pushed right, left, right, left, before falling to the ground. Fleeting. I press my hand on the crisp glass. When I remove it, it leaves a print. I watch the transient figure, as it changes form quickly. One second it is there, the next, it isn’t. The cold has consumed it, turned it into something fleeting, now gone. I envy it. Perhaps I am just tired.