Good evening readers,
Writing tonight.. To write, I suppose. Nothin' real to say, nothin' much to talk about. Mostly, I'm tired at the moment. There's been a lovely snow storm over the weekend, about 6-8" all told, though its hard to tell because a portion of it melted. and then refroze, and then got snowed on again. Once again the valley in which I live is painted a white paradise, and everything is pure and clean.
A wonderful thought, isn't it? A few inches of sparkling white over a weekend, and everything is beautiful and clear, smooth and unsullied. But it can't hide whats underneath forever, the snow melts, the water runs, and the landscape beneath is bared, in all its beauty in a bath of green, its dark corners, and roughness. There is ugliness there, but there's also beauty.
The white is beautiful, true. But its not real, its simply a blanket covering the truth. My snow is starting to melt, I'm beginning to find the me underneath, and the mirror sheen on the pools of my eyes are cracking away, showing me the world as it really exists beyond.
Its scary, because I can't see clearly now, worse than before sometimes. But that being said, when the last crystals fall away, and its all bared... What will I see, and what will I be, and will it have felt better under the hoary frost?
