Ice cream is swirling in the sky


The ground was white today – frost, not snow – but it got a rise out of my lungs anyways. It was a sign of things to come; it was a harbinger of colder days. It’ll lead into days where I can wrap myself in more than 3 layers; days where the bed feels warmer than usual. Comfort is an addiction. My addiction. Perhaps my one true love.

My bones have been good lately. Noisy, but normal. Still young. Still alive, and still waiting for the day they’ll break. If it’s going to be winter, I’ll be able to bring them out less often. I’ll chill. I’ll sit on my bed and watch as the sky turns grey to black. I’ll look at the neighbor’s Christmas lights turn on. Then I’ll boil some water, and make myself a cup of tea. I’ll listen to some hipster album, and I won’t bother looking for the meaning. I’ll chill.

I’ll stay up late. You’ll see, I’d say. One day, after midnight, the snow’s gonna fall. I’ll the first one to see it. I’ll be able to see the first flakes touch ground, kissing it softly as it glances the harsh pavement. More will fall. They’ll swirl; silently coursing through the air in their silent grace.

I wrap the blanket a little tighter. I’m peering through the window like a child looks through the glass of toy shops. The clouds are asking me “You like these? Here, take a closer look.” And I do. And it’s great. The longer I watch it, the more it feels like I’m in a snowstorm.

As the snowflakes cascade down, I start thinking about some weird pseudo-poetic shit. I think about the snow “burying all my troubles away,” and I think about how melts over time. I think about how happiness is temporary, and that beauty is ephemeral. As they fall, I give each one a silent funeral. When they eventually melt, they’ll fly up to the atmosphere be absorbed b the nameless mass of air that resides there.

I start to think about some random bullshit. I start to think about inevitability, and I start to wonder what would happen if snowflakes were conscious. If they could talk. If, if, if…

The sub-freezing light show really does a number on your head, I think to myself. I wouldn’t call it the ‘sub-freezing light show,’ though. Stupid name. Would die of embarrassment if I said that.

I try to stop thinking. I try to appreciate the snowfall for what it is, but something about beautiful scenes like this – something about the things that I like – I have to start thinking about how to describe it. How to write about it. How to preserve this fleeting moment within the confines of these alphabetical letters.

It’s better when I actually experience the moment, though. No snow yet. Less than one month until Christmas. Come on, climate change. Tip those temperature extremes to the limit for me. The hope of this guy hinges on your delivery of the annual snowfall. If you can give me a white Christmas, I won’t bash on you for summertime sweatiness.

Sincerely, a west-coast resident.


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