I stand behind the house, behind the windowpanes that gleam and glisten with ice blanketing the grass. I am in solitude; I look into the whirlwind, beautiful, deathlike and envelop myself within my listlessness.
I feel no joy, no sorrow, no discontentment or contentment-I am simply emotionless just like winter and its children: snow.
The snow is gentle but bitter like my countenance; the overcast sky is greay and bleak like the fall of humanity. I am apathetic, dreary, weary; my life is temporal like the snow in its death.
Evergreens, junipers and maples are garbed in royal robes of white. And there are dead, dormant trees that haunt as if they were indignant shells of demons. All that stirs is the zephyr that wisps my hair, the tendrils of vibrancy deterred. There is nothing more than the silence of serenity.
I feel the excruciating chill as it pervades my fragile body. But, despite its unrelenting fervor, I will not acknowledge its damage.
The fragrance of the pines and junipers are pungent yet inebriating as its robust scent emanates in the frostbitten air. Then, the sickening-sweet stench of damp, decaying bark saunters nonchalantly into my nostrils, making them flare in subtle malcontentment.
All that I taste is the air’s brutatlity as I breathe it in; it hardens my tongue and tortures my teeth as the cold, frigid air is inhaled. And as I slowly relinquish my soul to despair, the winter is comprehensible. Nature is master; it kills only to resurrect.