I’m sitting on my kitchen floor, with a perfect view of the top of the birch tree, the light grey sky and the falling snow. I have an exam in three hours and I really should spend this time doing some last minute studying – but I just can’t concentrate.
Snow has always inspired me to write. I remember sitting in my 9th grade science class writing poems instead of learning about esters and carbon chains. Poems about snow. Or in highschool, when I spent entire phsychology lessons writing snow filled short stories, not caring about the id or Pavlov’s dogs.
Maybe it’s because of the metamorphic power of snow. How you can wake up one morning and the world outside your window is something completely new and different from the world you went to sleep in. How it can turn the very mundane into a fairytale.
That’s what words should do too. Maybe that’s what I’ve been trying to copy.
So that it’s hard to concentrate on American security policy and the broadened security agenda when it’s snowing, that might not be that strange after all.
Katja Malmborg 