The heating system broke, right in the middle of the winter season. It is so cold, I can feel my frozen eyelashes touching the skin around my eyes as I blink. The only things keeping me warm are hot cups of coffee or tea and good stories. Who needs fire when I have Janet Fitch’s characters on my lap?
As I’m re-reading “White Oleander”, I forget all about the cold, the unwashed dishes in the sink (because, hey, no warm water for 3 days now!) or the icicles that form around my edges. I snuggle with my cat under thick covers, a steaming cup of coffee next to me, my head buried in the adventures of a tormented teenager whose life is imprinted with tragedy and loss.
I travel from a life to another, from foster home to foster home, I feel the lust for an older man, the pain as she gets shot, I crave the luxury of an unreal life embedded in perfection, I fall asleep with death in my arms.
The words are so intense that they are burning through my skull; they provide me with enough heat to last for the day. The room is cold, but my soul is on fire.
Writing, Reading, Living, but mostly Hiding 