Dear Diary,

Dear Diary,
It snowed last night. Actually, it still snows this morning. It’s pretty, snow always is, everything is covered in white again just like a Thomas Kinkade painting. Some might say the earth is in mourning, covering the woes with a clean slate; mourning over what would be up to interpretation. Maybe it’s winter sighing its last breath, or the death of freedoms, or a moment of silence in honour of the Ides, I suppose it depends on the person. Others might embrace it more jovially, the skiiers holding on for one last hurrah, the dogs who love frolicking through it, kids who suddenly become religious and start praying that the sparse flakes turn into an overnight blizzard. Maybe this snow is a little bit of everything and more. As for me, well, Diary, what this snow really means for me is hope. Hope that one day, when I wake up with snow outside my window where there’s supposed to be green instead, there is a chance I will be in Narnia.


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