There’s nothing quite like the feeling of relief that follows a long and grueling day of mental acrobatics. With finals looming ever closer, I felt a meltdown was imminent if I didn’t find some way to vent, pronto.
Last week, Stockholm had a miniature ice age, with temperatures dipping into minus double-digits territory and snow falling in semi-respectable amounts. “What better way to placate the fires of academic trepidation than to quench them in frigid snow?” I asked myself.
And so it was that on the morning of a day nestled between Christmas and New Years of 2015 that Brolaf came to be. Now, mind you- the weather has since inched its way back above the the temperature at which water starts having an identity crisis, and Brolaf’s corporal body is no more. That said, Brolaf is as real today as he was the day he was conceived, for the bonds of brotherhood that were forged on that frigid afternoon could only be described as everlasting.
Oh Brolaf! My Brolaf! Our fearful trip is done. The snow has seep’d under every door, your ice melted by the sun.
Gone is Brolaf, But the reprise from the mundane that his steadfastness provided lives on in all who knew him (mainly just me). 😀