Look out the nearest window. Describe what you see.

I see the grey white of a sky threatening to snow again, for the third
time so far this winter. Sky normally ashen gray in Seattle, pushing
us all into our passive aggressive pastimes. This isn't what I want to
write about it. I shouldn't have read the facebook posts of others,
the better ones, the ones who can write already, who haven't forgotten
their own plots--are so busy knowing their syntax, their arias and
auras. But here I am, Sweet Mozart, forgive me for trying to match my
keystrokes to your brusque musician delivered sounds. Here is a window
I want: the one that faces the garden, the garden filled with
vegetables in full blush, kiwi fruits thick on the vines. The garden
with overflowing lust--dripping with flowers and heavy with bees. The
garden with a muslin draped arbor, a chair in the shade. Tea on the
table in perfect china cups. Another window: the art studio in the
corner of the garden, looking in from the tall windows in front. A
painting on the easel that is begs to be touched up, altered, changed
and changed again. My sewing table draped with cloth--shelves of
fabric along one wall. Bins and drawers and glass jars with bits of
ribbon and shelf upon shelf of scissors and thread and paint. Here is
the window I wish I wanted: the one I can see right now, reflecting
back at me a better version of myself. One who doesn't spend her time
avoiding herself. A reflection of a better woman--prettier, skinnier,
successful, and smart. I wish I wanted to be here and be better, but I
don't. I want the garden and the art. The space to make and make and
make and read and draw and laugh. I want parties and new friends and I
want to feel brave and get over feeling fat. I'm tired of feeling
myself hustle and hustle.