A Writer in Winter: A Short Story


It was beyond cold tonight, and I could see my breath in the air. Still, I perched by the railing of the balcony, leaning out over empty space–and gazing at cars that glimmered like stars on the night-sky pavement below. It felt good to stare down at the depths, and know that the notebook I clutched in my hand had kept me from leaping to the ground below.

My fingers ached, but I knew they’d be fine–what with sleeping with the brace tonight, and doing some small exercises with my hands, I should have no problems come tomorrow. Of course, then I’d just repeat absolutely everything.

I sighed a tiny bit. My poor hands….

But then, I found myself smiling. I was doing what I loved, and it was all I wanted.

Of course, tomorrow, I’d be back at the Archives–caring for, handling, and researching all these lovely old books. I’d spend my days with people who cared about knowledge–and even get plenty of time alone to myself.

Time alone I’d use to write, of course. Maybe I’d even do some of the copywriting pieces I was meaning to do?

I thought back to my teenage years–young, terrified. Unsure of what to do, or how to handle the crazed mind I was born with. The blogs that would offer some control, and some recognition–some faith that I wasn’t alone in the world. I thought about the people I loved, and allowed myself a tiny smile–I’d beaten all of them, and outdistanced my dreams.

I was happier now than I ever thought I could be–secure in myself for the first time, and knew I was amazing. I was glowing with health–swimming, biking, and a healthy diet kept me in the shape I wanted to be. I, naturally, never went down to a size small–while most people wanted to be thin, I liked being a healthy amount of curvy. My hair was, of course, a solid black and cut in a ragged way–just as ragged as my emotions no longer were.

I was a writer now, and I was happy.


Note from the Half-Mad Writer–this story is a dream of mine. This is the kind of place I want to find myself in when I’m older: Happy, and not just content, with myself and what I had managed to accomplish.

I’m happy, world, with who I am.

And who I will be.


Bitter-Sweet Reality


I keep working on dreaming,

On happiness.

Something doesn’t feel right, but

I suppose that’s natural.

I try and remember

Days when I was happier, when I was okay.

But, are they different at all for now?

It doesn’t feel the same, somehow.

It feels like I’m missing something,

But what could I be missing

When I think I have everything?

I have love, I have peace.

I have joy, and I have rest.

I have my thoughts, and my ability to dream.

So, what could I be missing?

What could I do

To improve my life?

Is there anything

That can be done?