DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE
If I had to pick a favorite season, it’s winter. Yeah, I said it. The one that makes most people curl up under three blankets, clutching cocoa like it’s a life preserver. There’s just something about winter. It feels alive.
The air turns sharp. The world quiets down like it’s holding its breath. That chill in your bones? That’s winter tapping you on the shoulder, reminding you you’re still kicking. That crisp air that stings your lungs when you step outside? It’s like nature slapping you awake and yelling, “Rise and shine, you dramatic little mammal!”
I love that. I live for that. It’s refreshing. It’s honest. Unlike summer, which pretends it’s all fun and games until you’re sweat-glued to your car seat and melting into your flip-flops.
And let’s not forget the glory days: building snow forts like it was serious architecture. I was useless at building the actual fort—mine always looked like a collapsed igloo—but when it came to the snowball fight? Lethal. I had sniper aim with a fistful of packed powder. Honestly, I probably peaked as a ten-year-old winter soldier. Gloves, mittens on strings, and a tube of chapstick were standard-issue gear. That was the uniform. That was the life.
But—and this is key—there’s a line. And that line is subzero.
Once the temperature starts playing limbo with zero degrees, all bets are off. I’m not stepping outside. Not for errands. Not for “fresh air.” Not even for a dog walk, and I don’t even have a dog. At subzero, winter stops being poetic and starts being personal.
That’s not weather. That’s assault.
I remember one winter—it hit 30 below. I assumed the world would just… stop. Nature says nope, we say nope, we all go home, right? I call my boss, thinking surely we’re shut down. Nope. Open for business.
So we’re out there before sunrise, trying to coax frozen equipment back to life while it feels like your skin is cracking open. Meanwhile, the operator sits in the cab in the warmth and has the nerve to rush us. I swear, there would’ve been blood spilled if it wasn’t too damn cold to swing a wrench. We still talk about that day. Like it’s legend. Like winter war stories.
So yes—give me winter. The snow, the chill, the breath that turns visible like I’m exhaling secrets into the world. It’s magical.
Just don’t give me the “I can feel my soul shivering inside my spleen” version of winter. That one can go directly to Hell—ironically, a warmer place.
Wake me up when it’s hoodie weather again.
Memoirs of Madness 