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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