The Bag

Today was a very brown day, slightly red, but with no green, touched by mild blue. I refer, of course, to my M&M fortune-telling.

Also, nobody "belongs" in hell, but plenty of people are going there. Why? Because we are all born into a disgusting cycle of destruction that corrupts the very fabric of beautiful nature.

But, anyway, I don't really want to talk about that right now. I want to talk about snow.

When I was but a larva, I would dream every night of waking to the sight through my window of a snowy Colorado hill. I would run outside, snowpants securely grafted onto my body, and try my best to make as few footsteps as possible, leaving as much of the pure, white smoothness as I could. And then I would destroy it with a trash bag, an inner-tube, or a sled with metal parts that could have easily punctured my spleen.

But it was all so idyllic: the snow angels, the huge snow-boulders, and the poorly-designed snowmen. The freezing wind and the beautiful memento mori of ice on my face and gloveless hands were cheerful reminders of my status as a breathing, bleeding, carbon-based object. And then the cider, or whatever, that waited inside the house, along with the soothing voice of my mother and the delightful melodies of my oldest sisters singing Christmas carols from an antique songbook -- ah! My heart is cloven in twain for the devastating nostalgia.

But now, I'm in the South, and snow is rare. But I shall have my wintry, white wonderment. Oh, I shall.