“Your shaking shoulders prove that it’s colder inside your head than the winter of dead.” ~ Twenty One Pilots.
White - everything white. Clean, pure, wholesome. Though the feeling in the air is not the feeling of cleanliness, of purity. This air hold loneliness, fear, longing, and anything but cheer. As the wind blows, it sends flakes in icy flurries across the sky. The sky is shrouded with heavy clouds that darken the atmosphere; though it is still light enough to see the tears streaming down the girl's pale face. Pale and white, she blends into the background until she’s nearly invisible, save for her black hair whipping around her face. Invisible, just like how she feels. Faded, see-through; like cellophane against a dark background.
The frigid air sinks into her soul, as though demons have sapped all her heart’s warmth from her. And maybe they have. The snow coating the ground piles up higher - perfectly white; pure - until her feet are buried. She does not move. A sculpture with shaking shoulders. Though are they shaking with shivers or sadness? Is there a difference? Is depression really just hypothermia; though instead of freezing one’s body, it freezes one’s happiness?
As she stands in the brisk air, her breath comes out in smoky puffs. As if she is a fiery temple; except she doesn’t feel that way. No matter how pretty the glistening snow appears; nor how soft it feels falling on her nose, she does not see the winter as beautiful. With it’s muffling properties and ability to coat everything in sight, winter is an enclosed box, and she is the most claustrophobic person around.
Goosebumps erupt on her skin, creating a bumpy finish on her bare arms. Bare arms - though it’s minus 12 degrees and she could easily die. She could fall with the snow and be forgotten as quickly as the shapes of the clouds. She would be forgotten and alone.
But perhaps that’s what she wants.
