2 truths and a lie

I get in the car and slam the door closed, cutting off any noise from outside. I rest my head back and exhale, rubbing my eyes. It was a hard day. It was a weird day. It was one of those days people get when their heart feels bruised. One of those days where choosing to be happy anyway is difficult. The sun was setting as I started driving home and I turned on the radio. I rolled down the window, even though the AC was running on high, just for a minute. I wanted to feel the wind between my fingers. And suddenly it was hard to be sad. I could feel the breeze weaving around my hand as my fingers surfed the wind, and it felt like life. It felt like choosing joy. 

My footsteps echoed softly off the white walls in the large empty room. Near empty. On every wall was another painting by another artist, another masterpiece. Each painting had a different person's perspective of reality imprinted upon it. Everyone in the room was transfixed by one painting or statue or another. Everyone in the room found some connection or attraction to some artistic piece, and suddenly I wondered what was wrong with me. Because in a room full of masterpieces, I realized I'd rather look at you. 

Dad told me to duck as my brother threw another snowball in my direction. I laughed and brushed the snow away from my new purple jacket. I tugged my beanie down over my ears and tried to make a snowball myself, but it crumbled in my hands. "No fair," I shouted, but no one believe I could actually be mad, since I was still laughing. The birch trees that lined the path made us feel enclosed and isolated from the rest of the world as we walked in the quiet that was only broken by our voices. My sister tried to make a snow angel, but got too cold in the snow. My brother managed to make another snowball, but instead of throwing it at me he crumbled it over my head and I gasped as it landed on me. I ripped off my now-wet beanie and chased him around till we were tired.