#56.

i've been reading a lot lately--douglas coupland, margaret atwood--none of which would really do much for my academia. it's inspired me to write. i think often about things that i should like to write about. yet as soon as a really great idea comes into mind, it is gone. like wisps of smoke. foggy, intoxicating, intangible.

one of my greatest aspirations is to produce a sort of greatness. something that will compel people to feel something of astronomical proportions. something that will inspire others to ditch their apathy and maybe find a light in the world to follow.

maybe,maybe,maybe.

as recent events have unfolded, i should like to tell you, my dear little crevice in this vast 'anonymous' network, that i am quite devastated. because earthquakes are ripping countries apart and the ocean follows suite, seeking to swallow anything it can touch. and leaders are distributing self-proclaiming justice on freedom fighters, while mothers and children and fathers and brothers and sisters cry.

and i am left here, in a little room on the outskirts of my university campus, feeling personal heartbreak as the snow outside billows down in soft, wet chunks. and i shudder because i realize, how many have/will never see[n] snow.