Frost
“It was a black and white day of frost, which crawled along the dark trees and outlined twig and branch. The air was misty, and distant objects assumed a mysterious importance. Slight sounds, too, suggested infinite activities to the mind.”
There are some very distinct aspects of Winter that are hard to love. Such as the fact that while doing its very best to freeze you, Winter burns - leaving frozen fingerprints tattooed upon your bones. Breathing becomes a torturous affair, your lungs seared raw by Winter’s numbing breath, and when expelled -painting eyelashes with the most delicate of frost jewels. You learn the nature of coldness intimately - dancing with an unseen partner who aims to take the world of touch … of feeling - of the very awareness of the physical world away from you.
To invite coldness to dance, is to defy the notion of warmth and to remake it into an idea shelved as a distant and futile memory. The truth is, Winter is hard - sometimes cruel and unforgivable.
But if you are brave enough to venture into such a world - your sight will be painted with a pallet of white. Winter - an abrasive, yet poignant artist … creates in delicate brushstrokes in tandem with curt and charismatic lines. If you are willing to endure the bite of Winter’s kiss - you will find a world founded upon ice, predicated by the the impossible idea that branches and lakes can become gallery walls - hung with the draping’s of innumerable and inscrutable crystals.
Frost - Winter’s masterpiece.
