Outside the snow is drifting lazily down like, well, like snow really. It twirls and spins around almost but not quite like a tornado, and when it finally falls, it does so at an angle. It coats the ground and the trees, everything in its path, nothing is spared its bitter cold torture. Inside it is warmer, but still a bit nippy. The sweet scent of ocean breeze drifts up to my nose from the candle on the desk. It surrounds me and brings forth images. Rushing waves and breaking tides. Children running and splashing as the sand castles fall prey to the tides’ siege. A shame that the image in my mind disappears with just a turn of my head, as I again look out the window. The snow has its own beauty, though it freezes us to the bone. It is often a symbol for death and the end, and yet, it brings with it new life. The tracks of a bunny are just barely visible from my vantage point here in my room. I image it is quite cold out there, but its fur must give it some warmth.
A car drives past, its motor breaking the near silence. The candle’s flame has burnt out and now the room smells slightly of smoke. It is a peaceful and calming scent. After a time the smell tickles my nose. It is a strange feeling, that of smoke in your nose. Not quite painful, and yet not pleasant. It is odd, that.
Outside the snow has stopped, but the sky remains grey and gloomy. It is as if a large hand has covered the sun, and only small bits filter through to warm the hearts of us poor inhabitants. It seems at times that winter will last forever, though we know in our hearts that it must at sometime come to an end. Alas, such is the way of the world, that hard times seem to last an eternity, and yet those happy and pleasurable moments last but an instant, always fleeting and far between. Why is it that the happy times seem so hard to remember in detail?
The setting sun changes the sky from a gloomy grey to a deep blue, and then black. It is so dark that even the stars do not shine through. I’m sure that were I in a position to see it, the moon too would elude me.
The sounds of Bach’s musical genius now float through my room, bringing with them more images of life. It is a sweet sound, and in conjunction with the dissipating scent of the ocean, very calming. Bach is like a waltz, slow and calming. I can just picture Victorian era women in their wonderfully fashionable gowns gently gliding across the ballroom floor under a large glowing chandelier at some fancy party, to which only the elite are invited.
