cislyn | (no subject)

It's cold. I mean it's really, really, really freakin' cold. There is no snow, but there is wind and there is chill and there is a cat wandering around the house meowing loudly to point out that it's windy and chilly and he'd like some lap space now bitch.

And why am I contemplating starting yet another journal? Which I won't write in? Or wouldn't I? ~sighs~ Cislyns is sooooo silly.

I dreamed last night of water. Shallow wading pools lined with smooth round rocks, and heated pools ten feet deep with little silver fish darting between swaying grasses at the bottom and a lake beneath vine-y trees warm in dappled sunlight. I dreamed also of ice - an ice cavern with strange thin sheets of ice covering tunnel openings and little metallic boxes with glowing and winking lights just beneath the ice embedded in the walls. That's all I can remember.

We have only one log for the fireplace. This suddenly seems like a problem of enormous proportions. I want a fire, but I don't want to burn our last log. It's like being in polite company and not wanting to take the last tasty dinner morsel off the plate, even though you're hungry and you know nobody else will take it either. Except this is much, much chillier.

I'm going to go and shiver now.

Edit: How cold, you ask? 25F, feels like 14. Brrrr.