The first snowfall was even more satisfying to me than I imagined it would be.
Having not slept all night, in the early hours of the morning I pushed aside the slats covering my large livingroom window, and sat on the carpet wrapped in a heavy quilt. I watched a thick blanket of clouds embrace the valley from mountain top to mountain top, before releasing its delicate cargo.
Oh, how I love the snow.
One of the things that I find most pleasurable about winter are the nights. Where the sky turns a rich plum color, with glowing orange hues; where tendrils of mist caress the sliver of moon that peeks shyly between the hazy sky – running wispy fingers down its silver spine. The air almost seems to shiver in delight.
There is no peace I've known that can quite compare to the absolute still of a windless, silent winter eve – where the gently falling snow that melts on eyelashes and dusts your body invokes the deepest of thoughts with its graceful decent.
As I sit here now, I close my eyes; and in a wave of longing I conjure you from my mind and recollect a night that has yet to happen.
We sit huddled together, the space between our blushing noses is shallow. The only sounds are the bubbling laughter and whispered plots that drown in the silence. Sounds that even the trees have to lean in close to hear – who quickly become enraptured by the melodic tone of your voice as your words melt the night – and watch enchanted, as our swirling breath meets and embraces, dancing to your lullaby, drifting gracefully into the atmosphere.
My lips are chapped with cold, and wet from my tongue that pushes through them in a rush of words – as secrets tumble from the swollen spaces of my mind – forming letters that freeze and fall into your lap.
And you gather them up, and put them into your pocket for safe keeping. The hands on the clock turn with the shifting of the earth, so we lose ourselves in the stillness of the night.
It is not winter yet however. But anticipation of it all floods my veins with a fire I cannot quench. But I am patient.
November (n.): the last month of autumn, but the beginning of a new adventure; time to take risks and do the unexpected.
I have been striving to get to know myself better. It feels like being reintroduced to an old friend you'd forgotten you knew. I am realizing with each passing day that I am more and more powerful of a being – and yet more damaged with a pain that demands to be felt – than even I had previously imagined. I may even be quite out of my mind, as I am currently lost in mazes built by a bitter past; seeking an escape.
I see the world in a way that the normal, mentally healthy individuals surrounding me can't – wont. They cant see it, or feel it, because their senses aren't engaged and raw. They wake up in the morning, go through their day mechanically, and they never open their eyes.
They are blind.
By closing your eyes to the ugly and painful, you similarly close your eyes to the beautiful and pleasurable – the complex magic in the universe that you cannot see unless you deliberately seek it out. Then, and only then, will you be able to transform your tormented old soul, into ecstatic beauty. It is always easier to be miserable; because to suffer is often less complex of an emotion comparatively to happiness. It is easy to be piteous, and frequently it is unavoidable. But to use that anguish and transform it into a passion and a ferocity that only exemplifies the magnificence of our world – is a rareness indeed. And though I may oftentimes be unstable, fragile, flighty, sensitive, fearful, insecure, and uncertain – these terrible, ugly things – I still am able to look upon the earth unblinking, and intensely understand.
And it fills me with peace.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
~C
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