A few times in recent weeks I have thought to write but then did not. I am very bad at doing anything productive lately it seems.

There was New Year's - those moments just before midnight, when you feel obligated to reflect on the outgoing year and to consider the one incoming. When you think of how time is a funny thing, and how it's all just the same really (the seconds, the minutes, the hours, the days and weeks and months), it continues on the same as it always ever has, but somehow, at a certain point, it is suddenly a new year, the previous one past, never to be retrieved or revisited.

There was that night earlier last week, when it was mild just before the thermometer sank to -25 for a number of days, and I was walking home after class, across the campus, past all the beautiful old stone buildings with their yellow light spilling out of the windows into the snowy darkness. It was all fresh and white and the trees were beautiful too, and the snowflakes grew larger and larger as I walked, that by the time I reached Princess they were so ginormous and lovely that it was difficult to stop myself from laughing and spinning through the slush. And there was so much beauty, even amongst the drabness of Division and Princess, because of those huge lazy snowflakes in the orangeish glow of the city streetlights on a wintry night.

Sometimes I like to listen to my music softly, softly.