03.18.2004 - 12:07 p.m.

Snow is only snow unless you are seven, or drunk on carbombs and Killian's. If you are seven, or drunk, it is shocking, and soft, and delirious, and it reminds you of parts of yourself that had faded away over the preceding hours. You stand there dumbly upturned, enchanted, just like you were at the throb of a beat, the kiss of a cigarette, the ache of a smile.

It is not every day I feel safe among strangers. Which is one of the reasons I don't do this very often; the things that become so easy and perfect--the meeting people, the talking and the dancing--still scare me too much sober. Feeling that it doesn't matter what I do here, how I breathe here, what I say is still a luxury, or maybe an escape, and is not something I can conjure up on my own. Yet.

"It takes so little to make us happy, why doesn't it happen all the time?" the roommate was asking earlier that night, not expecting an answer.

"Because we would burst," I answered, and I have not changed my mind.

-stonebridge

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