Can't shine enough to light up these memories

Prints//Instagram

@ thiefhands

For someone who has lived almost exclusively in warm and hot climates all my life, I have always felt a strange and unwarranted sense of home upon stepping out into a place that is bitingly, extremity-numbingly cold. Driving into Breckenridge my sister (as warm-blooded as they come) was bundled up in the passenger seat like the kid from “A Christmas Story”. The only thing distinguishing her as a human being rather than a lifeless pile of laundry were her eyes, just barely visible above heaping layers of winter clothes and blankets and below her large faux fur hat that she had purchased at a gas station in Utah the day before and had refused take off ever since. Not wanting to vex her any longer with my open window I pulled over, determined to get out and soak in the cold until my lungs hurt and my nose lost all feeling. I recognize that these are not traditionally appealing sensations, but they are incredibly appealing to me. I suspect that this is possibly my body’s way of retaliating against all the collective years of my life it has spent draped desperately over fans covered in wet towels and collapsed despondently on concrete floors in vain attempts to stay cool while the Arizona sun carries out its summer-long agenda of cooking every living soul within its reach. Or maybe I was a viking in a past life, who knows. 

Humming // Turnover