What’s the half-life on a broken heart?

I love the first breath of dry winter air that you get after you shut the door, the cool invigoration that filters through your lungs, vitalizing your soul. You can always start over once you have that first breath – it’s the first cloud towards the sky. Winter has such a negative stigma attached to it typically, and I understand it, and I also understand why people can love it. In the winter you can only rely on yourself, for the unrelenting climate won’t give you any favors. Winter almost favors solitude as well as rewards it. You can always think clearer when you have a blast of subzero air attacking your senses, for these dramatic temperatures bring to the surface the ideas and things that truly matter inside you. If you were to freeze to death, would your life have ended with unfinished business? It’s the long walks home from campus, the peaceful ones where the night is blanketed with stars, the air crisp and frigid, and the earth covered with a glistening, immaculate sheet of wonder. I’ve come to look forward to walking home, listening to my voice bouncing around my brain, with extremities powering down and steam emanating from my nose – the steps into the freshly fallen powder, never looking back – flanked by the icicles that never cease to sculpt themselves into cones of opaque beauty.

I’m starting to wonder that if what I’m seeing through my lenses is the manifestation of what’s growing inside of me. Trees stripped bare, footprints going in every direction but leaving no clues as to their destination, hidden ice, a wilderness in stasis – this is what I see.

Could there be something romantic about ashes and memories, dead feelings somehow re-ignited and effusing, burning until the earth is scarred? Biting the bullet may be a fine technique, but enough jaw clenches and you’re going to break the shell open, spilling the black death powder all over your teeth and innards. Cold metal, sludgy black powder, stained teeth, choking victim. (I’m going into hibernation for the time being, allowing myself to become wrapped up entirely with the station/playing music/writing. Slipping underneath and sinking for a bit.)