More of my writings.

I have walked a great while over the snow, and I am not tall nor strong.

I do not know how I have walked this long in this snow. Indeed, I do not even know how long I have walked in the snow. It seems to me as though I have been walking in this endless, flat field of snow for eternity.

I have vague memories of what was possibly my life before I entered this field of snow. Memories of other people. Of warm houses. Of friends. Of family. Of lovers. Of the warmness of other human beings. Of fire. Of warm rain.

But they are all vague, mere dust mites floating in my mind. I can not firmly grasp onto any of them, can not firmly grasp onto all of the memories of warmth.

Instead, I am constantly pounded with the memories I have formed and continue to form in this endless, cold abyss. That of cold, that of endless, eternal cold.

I have become well acquainted with this endless field of snow in the eternity I have spent here. Everywhere I walk, the snow is always half way up my naked body, nearly touching my breasts. It never snows, but I know that if I lose vision of a a trail I have made in the snow, it will be filled with fresh, flat snow, as the rest of the field is. Below the snow there is only an unbreakable layer of ice, which, despite what seemed to be years pounding at the same spot, would not even crack. My hands would bleed, my bones would break. Indeed, I have attempted suicide in this place many times. But it does not let me die. It heals any wounds I inflict upon myself, breathes air into my lungs when I attempt to suffocate on the snow, and makes sure that I am always just warm enough to survive, never allowing me to slip into that wonderful, warm peace of death. Indeed, it does not even let me sleep. This place has robbed me of any possible peace I might have.

I would have thought I might have grown used to the cold by now. But for some reason, this place does not allow that. It makes sure that every time a feeling of cold comes over me, it is as if it was the first time I ever felt cold, ensuring that the pain is new and fresh every time, allowing for an eternity of cold pain.

Oh, what I would do to escape this place, to have any escape from this place, whether it be death, or even a singular moment of the slightest warmth. Oh, what I would do. But this place never, ever gives me any opportunity to escape. It keeps me here, torturing me. And I know it will not let me leave.

I have walked a great while over the snow, and am neither tall nor strong.

I do not know how I will continue to walk in this snow.