It’s been a cold one this week, I can’t tell you how many days I spent in doors, typing away on my laptop or writing in my journal with a warm blanket on my lap and a cup of hot chocolate by my side. Winters were made for hibernating and I can’t help but love it. The day has finally come when it’s acceptable to stay inside, no questions asked. I know that there are tonnes of winter sports and activities to take part in, but even in warm weather sports are not my scene. The first (and only) time I went skiing I ended up in the middle of the mountain, flat on my buns. One of my skis was nowhere to be found, my ski poles were scattered on the mountain. The first time I went snowboarding I couldn’t hack it and spent the day in the chalet listening to some guy tell me what a loser my boyfriend at the time was. So, to winter sports I say no. I’m sure I’ll find myself headed to the city to bask in the beautiful Christmas lights and tree, or out at a friend’s house, but that’s pretty much it.
You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book (Lady Chatterley, for instance), or you take a trip, or you talk with Richard, and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure. That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. — Anaïs Nin
It’s one thing to hibernate for the winter, it’s another to hibernate from your life. Once again I’ve got some decisions to make; answers to questions I’ve been successfully avoiding since August. What am I good at? What do I want for my future? What am I willing to do to get it?
Send hot chocolate, positives vibes, and help*