Outside my window, the alley way is spotted with chunks of icy slush. The dull grey sky hangs low over gray stucco and aluminum siding spliced with mottled strips of garbage-strewn asphalt. Naked grey twigs have replaced whatever lush foliage there once was, and they, like me, are reaching skywards, yearning for light. Actually living through the winter seems to me to be something of a miracle. It's not the cold that gets me, but the wet and grey. I feel like it slowly leeches the colour out of my surroundings, and with it, my life. I want nothing more than to hide inside and try to accelerate the succession of days. My mood hangs low and dark like the cloud banks around Mount Seymour, and I hunker down to wait, trying to keep faith, despite my body's protests, that the sun will indeed come out again.

Photo credit: the talented Mr. Dearden