Outside the snow falls in soft gauzy streams, a tender playfulness about it. People seem different somehow. It's uplifting, sitting here and actually seeing the orange lampposts gleam against the soft white background. It reminds me of something. A Christmas special on tv maybe.

Checking ICQ...still no word from Colleen. It sounds odd, but it feels like the trip never happened. I see the green packet of photographs and the large specially tinted photo of her and Belle...and I fundamentally know it happened...but it feels like a different life with a different me. We change parts to accomodate others but the division for me seems so marked...yet lacking. The snow outside is a wonder to me. I'm not sure who I am tonight.

Maybe the hardest parts are over or will be soon. Maybe it can be like this for awhile, even if the night and snow doesn't last forever. I sound young...that's what surprises me.

I think everything and everyone is a fable, with tell-tale signs and signals. I see how the stories interweave with me, come and go. Conflict, love, betrayal...it all plays out like I thought it would with the occasional plot twist. I know I'm just a strand in it all...and oddly I appreciate myself for by seeing that, feeling it run between collections of others, like hands along a braid. I used to tell the same story to myself over and over. Just the threads, the people were different, but it was the same braid. I feel like I repeat myself often...and I do...but it's difficult being original when you've found your pet mind games. You could pity me right now for finding a way to explain away pain or inadequacies with pretty words, but you'd be dead wrong. Trying to explain things always changes...at least I hope it continually changes; I hope I continually change and I'm not just repeating myself.

I've never thought people were people. It just seems too simple, but a story or threads just seems too sappy or idealistic. The truth doesn't matter, anyway. As substantial or insubstantial as they are, there is some reason to them, to you. Maybe it sounds arrogant to guess and gaze at your parts, but I see myself in the same way, all the parts and the whole at the same time.

The snow is a nice distraction. It makes me think of these visions that tell me about another story, one where there's just a feeling...differnt sounds, images, but it's warm, mythical. I feel alive in this achieved sense. I want whatever that fleeting occasion is to be real. Maybe this is just preparation. I've been told so before, but I don't believe in ghosts or empaths.

I'll enjoy the snow and smile and forget for us.

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