It is winter here. Cold, feathers of snow float and dance and then hit the ground. Their weightlessness is adorable, so pure, so fragile and so beautiful. The thin thread between the consciousness and existence, justifies life, while everything else seems to be dead. One moment it is snow, one moment it is gone.
Killing beautifully everything possible, the strand of grass, the vitality of leaves, the strength from the girth of trees and the life within the lives of so many. It is winter here, and the mind wanders with the snow. Freezing with it and melting with it. I have wandered enough now, to find the answers of the un–answerable.
To find what it is not meant to be found. To find the sufferings and the healing. But how far one is supposed to reach beyond the borders of one’s own experience. Maybe that is the time when one starts to create false experiences. Starts to feel what is not real and not there and assume it to be true. Maybe then the whole thing starts.
It is winter here
And I wander,
Far far inside my head
Which is warm and wild
It is winter here
So I wander,
To keep the snow off
From my sight
And remember my own coldness