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The Meaning Behind the Cold

She used to love Winter. The blank canvas the snow formed over the land, encasing it like a warm blanket, waiting for life to push past its weight and grow to greet the sun come spring.

She’d loved how serene and quiet the world became. How shimmering and beautiful her world became beneath the light. The cold never bothered her, was so easy to push past the biting chill in her youth, because she had refused to let such a little thing stop her.

She used to love the season, so new and fresh, and always the same. A friend she looked forward to seeing.

Now; she cares little for the harsh and frigid season. Now, she hates how silent, how well her whitened world hides its terrible deeds. How the howling wind can muffle a scream. How biting the air becomes; stealing her warmth and her breath, her very life, without a care.

The cloaked landscape is now a well-hidden trap. Easily ensnaring many; dragging them down concealed holes, or drowning them under frozen waters. Tricking your eyes; sending you stumbling down a hill or cliff. Confusing you, leaving you unable to find your way again.

The season is a stranger, circling her, curling its icy fingers around her.
Now, she finds herself lost, back against the soft snow. Ice-water in her veins, flesh cold as stone, staring up at the unchanging sky.

She curses Winter for stealing her away. Curses herself as her eyes fall shut and the snowflakes float down gently upon her.

She wishes she wasn’t so cold as the darkness tempts her down, and she stumbles after it. Content to wait for spring.

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