I seemed to drift between two worlds rather often. One, a dark, bleak world, was real, and in it and all around me, winds chapped lips and cut sharply through my skin – a knife tearing at an already worn, lonely heart. This is the world we live in, and in it, the sun rises late and sets early. In this world, gray is the colour of choice. In this world, I had but one hope:
She reached out to touch my hand, and with the slightest touch, I was in a small, cottage-like room, with a churning fireplace where a crimson red glowed from the room and from our hearts. Wet lips did not chap, and the sun shone through a large windowpane. This was the world I chose to live in, and no matter where we were – whether it be running through an ongoing tempest or squinting eyes in the snow’s whiteout – the fact was…as long as I could squint my eyes to make out her presence, I was warm. I was in another world. I was home.