Reading Les Miserables makes me wish to stage my own revolution, and possibly to die nobly for a cause. At present, it is my favorite book.
On Wednesday, I wore three layers of clothing to work, and was not overly warm even inside the office (they turn down the heat at night, so I'm usually half-frozen). I called my mother yesterday evening and she said that it was -30 degrees in Grand Rapids. We are approaching Antarctic temperatures here, my friends. Wretched. It is better this morning, though I will still start my car and let it warm up before I leave work. I tried to dislodge some of the snow that has gathered in the wheel wells, on a day when the temperature did not climb above zero, and discovered that it was frozen solid, with the texture and color of graphite. In other words, immobile and almost crisp-flaky. My boots were no match at all.
It is strange. Little is happening, and yet from this view I can see the whole of my life spread before me, and the future glows like a beacon. I am content to be sometimes unhappy now, if it means that I reach that light at some time. This is, to say the least, unlike me. I am growing old and young at the same time. Perhaps there is some manner of wisdom in hope.
Or perhaps I should put down the book before it goes to my head.