“Winter solitude—
in a world of one color
the sound of wind.”

There is this thing about the cold weather season where it leaves a lasting impression on our minds, our souls. With the power, the command that it envelops the warmth all around us, leaving only space for only it to reign, the freezing and light breezes directed our way-reminding us every minute of their much dreaded presence.

Yes, dread.

People not liking the cold is not a rare phenomenon. Like a frozen space of time, with the life inside frozen as well. Not often does one witness men walking around in this frozen warp of time, on a cold, chilly day, meandering their way through the mist-laden streets with the weather exhibiting all the signs of an omen…and not a good one,at that.

You’ll see all the shops in the old, dusty avenue shut down, with their windows closed; and not a single soul on the street to guide the lost man who seeks comfort. Neither do you see the sun behind the clouds, even though little of the sunlight seeps in; the darkness resides at the corners – ready – any minute to make the daylight go away, to make it cave in.And when it does, when the dark takes over the area, you will see a few streetlamps flickering amidst the fog-some broken, others lost- but most of them with their fires dying out, yet, not a single soul on the street.

Even though as the day fades away and the night slowly seeps in, I see a young, little bird: with its wings stretching outwards and soaring high up in the sky-sometimes flying low, flapping its wings in the air – then turning around, and flying back away into the mist.

I see the little bird’s silhouette gradually turning into a shadow with the dark, yet it flies away merrily into the fading day, into the night. The bird flies-doing a little loop here, a low somersault there-it wanders through the cold winter air where not a little flame dare spark; in the hollowness where not a single soul dare wander the frozen streets…

Ironic, isn’t it?


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