Cold… so cold.
My room’s heating is not working at all, and so I have resorted to sitting in my bed, with my duvet wrapped around me. I am wearing gloves in order to type, as my hands are exposed.
Admittedly, I am heating up as we speak, but if I try to move to the desk, or get something to drink, I will have to expose myself to the cold again. Apparently outside it is approximately 1 degree. It was snowing a few days ago. While the snowing has stopped, it hasn’t melted, because it is so so cold.
Anyhow, I managed to acquire food and drink; I just have to find the courage to get to the bag they are in. I don’t know why that is an accomplishment in this day and age, but it has to count for something, right? Yesterday I managed to eat a bagel in Starbucks, which was quite tasty; kept me full for the whole day. I was in there to meet up with some friends and steal the heat of the cafe for awhile.
From where I sit, I can see through the curtains. It’s sunny outside, but as I discovered earlier, it is freezing and windy. It usually is alright if you’re walking around, especially when the wind ceases, but there is no mercy when it begins to blow.
It feels as though I will never be warm again. Glaswegian chill goes straight to the bone, much like a knife. I think I now know what the writer from Moulin Rouge and Rent felt. (Trust me to make cultural references at a time like this!)
Also, I can tell it is cold because my hairgel – well, putty – has gone stone-hard. Not sure I’d want to put that in my hair any time soon.
There is an advantage to this situation, I suppose. I get to stay in bed all day and doze off whenever I so desire.
Speaking of sleep, the cherry-lipped maiden from my dream has not returned. I waited excitedly (well, as excitedly as possible when asleep) but she never came. I’ve seen her in my daydreams, but not my dreams. I imagine at times how I would hold her close, for us to be able to share body heat and the duvet. Of course, that is, if she would have me. I don’t really see why she would; it is highly unlikely she will return to my dreams anyhow. What further caresses and kisses would be shared, I don’t know.
Part of me wonders whether that is Erik’s dream, not mine. Erik (with a ‘k’) is the Phantom of the Opera. While I have not met him, or hope to meet him anytime soon, I am aware that he was in love with one Christine Daae. She was pale as snow, with brown eyes and luscious brown curls. And when she sang, birds would go silent to hear her tune. She certainly fits the description. I don’t think I’ve met anyone like that as of yet, and, aside from my name, I have always felt I shared something with Erik. But is it possible to share a brain, or a subconscious? Is it possible to plant thoughts and dreams into another’s mind without actually knowing them?
Perhaps. Perhaps not. I am a writer, and that does tend to make it very difficult to separate imaginings from dreams and the realities of my fictions from my own reality. After all, if art reflects life, then it is most true, but only to its creator. It is some form of the truth as perceived by the artist. I suppose writers face the greatest challenge with this because it is rare that they will be known beyond their work. While a painter or sculptor might be remembered for their style or ‘school of thought’, the writer will be judged on content,and entertainment value (that is, if we are talking about a professional writer, who gets paid for creating fiction). I suppose due to the nature of other artforms, like painting, sculpture, drawing, film, and such, it is not easy to get into them. For one thing, you’d need some sort of technical training or background, as well as a budget to make whatever it is you are making. Writing, on the other hand, merely involves pen and paper, or a laptop, or typewriter. There is not always a great requirement to be able to write something fascinating and perfect, but it must be able to sell; sell, like a car, or a phone. While sculptures and paintings are at the higher price range, a book is cheap, and is expected to give something to the reader, some sort of experience.