I

i seem to have, for the median part of the year, forgotten what winter is like, that chilling monochromatic expanse of... everything and nothing and death (i see black and white... you see only gray), though as i spend more time outside it comes trickling back, like a snowmelt down the edge of the street. perhaps i have only forgotten what winter at night is like, which lately is when i am out most- after all, seven and a half hours of daylight plus a misaligned internal clock does not lend itself to seeing much of the world by sunlight. or perhaps i've just forgotten what walking in winter is like- whether never doing it enough before or simply spending too much time doing it in bearable conditions? barring either of those, perhaps it's just that the onset of winter was disproportionately short and suddenly i find myself in the midst of the season with little time to prepare. it is one thing to look and not touch; another thing entirely to be trapped inside- i long to return to a world you've denied me.

the year seems to have passed so quickly, and the summer is always so short, yet already i have lost indications of how to properly handle any given temperature. though arguably, is it not possible i make those mistakes intentionally, if only so as to feel the cold again and remind myself of what has returned? i have not forgotten you-or if i have, only temporarily, but i still need these yearly reprisals- sometimes i can't help feeling numb through and through. the weather's not unseasonable, by any means; it merely seems premature. i am relearning to walk on ice, remembering again to use chapstick to protect lips from the teeth of that biting wind, recalling the little details of how to get by such as specifically what type of snow is easiest to walk on. moreso, i am unfailingly amazed that although it consistently snows every day, it gets packed down by its own weight so much that no more snow appears to have fallen at all, aside from the white sheet on every tangible object outside whether horizontal or not.

before i leave my house i have already made up my mind to take the bus to and from my destination- yet the moment i step outside i have already, inexplicably, decided to walk instead. the beauty is so overwhelming, i can't help but think it may just be time to look rather than merely see. i have forgotten the flawlessly smooth fields of snow, the clarity of the dusk's air, the ice crystallized on the tree branches like winter glass only wishing to make it through the night. had i brought with me paper and pen i could sit here in the snow, disregarding the chill seeping into my bones, and attempt to capture the stark essence of this snowglobe i have found myself inside. i fear that waiting too long to transfer it into written word will only dull the details and fog my view. words written over time only serve to paint these days a clearer shade of black.

II

yet- in the end- it is all in vain. can you capture a handful of sunrise to grace a lover with its warmth? can you paint a transparent rainbow with acrylic and canvas? it is foolish to trick ourselves into believing we can capture nature itself- we only make cheap imitations, satirical mockeries of a world skewed by our own perception so it appears we are the ones creating this new perfection. seeking sanctuary in the written word to make the inspiration visible- audible- touchable. to create a world from dust- that is what it means to be our own deities. our words forever fall short like dying leaves in an autumn breeze, never making it further than the tree which bore them.

should it be enough to attempt? i would like to even capture this dichotomy in words, this love-hate acquaintanceship with the depths of midwinter, the obsession with beauty that seizes the breath from lungs and the loathing of bitter cold that does exactly the same thing. is a failure in creating a written microcosm of our surroundings made up for if we can instead create a depiction of the world through our eyes, openly admitting our weakness of human imperfection and the tint our own ideals and wishes colour on to it? this is only a fraction of the same worth but art is all we have to offer, never to recompense the experiences we've borrowed.

it is a most humbling realization that passion is our greatest virtue and sentiency our greatest strength, but even combining these two does not compare to the existence and actions of nature itself. our souls echo the dust that forms us and we can only dream of fully comprehending it. my heart whispers in forms that twenty years of reason and cognition have rendered useless. a look, a touch, a heartbeat- eternally inimitable. on the other hand, is it not possible that it is our own rationality which has strangled our understanding?

III

i long for the sense of warmth again, but no matter how long one waits or how far one travels, the chill inside is a feeling that never leaves. it remains in our blood forever. lost gray pictures of my past stain greener pastures of my future. our hearts are coated with ice and to let it melt would be to defy the very principles that make us human.