Snow and ice #3

I live for this winter, for the ache of pale gold sun on sudden mounds of snow craving for here and now, resigned to be shaped by the fingers of a different wind, come tomorrow.

The boundlessness surrenders a silent freedom, an unconscious release from these boundaries that reappear in the finality of spring; this is once grass, this is once pavement, this is once gutter, this is once the edge of a one-way street. The infinite white carelessly blurs these interfaces we arbitrarily create for ourselves in order that we have lines to walk along and distances to measure.

The deep cold that cuts through my artificial skins is what makes me human. The winter that cares little for me releases me from the bounds of my existence; I owe it nothing and therefore gain my freedom.