I hate being sick. I hate not being able to do things because of it. I hate how I can't sleep. But at the same time, I love it. I love feeling vulnerable, weak. Tired. I don't understand it. But then again I don't really understand myself.
Winter begins tomorrow. I long to be up in the mountains, playing in the snow, icy winds tickling my cheeks pink. I long to watch it fall at night, where the moonlight and Christmas icicles are my only light. I wish to breathe in it's life, filling my lungs with cold. I wish for the pure air, I want freedom from my sickness. But even without the cold, I'll lie in the warmth of my bed, drinking tea and reading fairytales, watching the clouds as they pass by, begging them to stay but waving farewell.