It’s too cold to write. The temperature is 20 degrees below zero and the north wind is blowing painfully. My words are surrounded with ice, my thoughts are freezing. I long for the golden sun and the warmth of the lazy, sunny days of summer.
I don’t want to write. This happens seldom. Words make me shiver and all I want to do is to crouch under the blanket and sleep and maybe dream about nothing.
I don’t understand people who enjoy winter, who find pleasure in skiing, skating and walking in the crisp wind. But I know they are lucky and I envy them. They will survive the winters yet to come, while I, year after year become more aware of the fact that to be able to live in a relatively sane state of mind, I must do something to my dislike of winter.