If summer’s green can be described as beautiful, then the winter of today,
with all its glittering snow and cold sunlight,
shall be called breath-taking.
I have been struck by the urge to create something in the act of looking out my window.
I wish to make something worthwhile, impactful, and awe-inspiring.
So, I now find myself writing whilst listening to soul-shaking melodies
that of which feign to be the elusive muse to my drifting mind.
As of recent I have found myself being seduced by the idea of fiction.
To be either a part of a surreal world myself or to forge one,
playing as a petty God to a non-existing universe, both appeal to me,
though the latter is sorrowfully more likely to occur than the former.
I wish to be on days like this one,
yet on dismal, cloudy days or excessively-bright days, I desire not to.
It has not escaped my notice that my mental-state has been changing as of late.
I’m no longer sure of who I’m supposed to be or who I want to be.
Am I man or woman?
Human or animal?
And are humans not animals by nature?
I think to myself, but then I look out the window again,
at the vast expanse of impossible, wind-swept blankets of snow,
and I forget.
Living isn’t a choice.
Nor is death.
Both are born of the natural order of simply existing,
just as we are.
There is no such thing as fate or destiny,
but the path spread out beneath our feet is just as real as the body harboring one’s soul.
Knowing where to go is a delusion in the thought process of an overconfident individual;
not knowing where to go is the same as being lost.
There’s no definite course.
No map or guide can lead us in the right or wrong direction.
We are creatures driven by instincts and gifted with the ability to imagine,
so we press on in hopes of further indulging ourselves in the mystery that is everything.
“I want to create.”
Yet, the snow is melting; the clouds are darkening.
Alas, I have forgotten.
Summer’s green is beckoning to my uneasy conscience.
Still, there exists a hesitance that keeps my eyes drawn to the dying elegance before me.
My breath fogs the chilled glass, obscuring my view as well as my distant fantasies.
Unfortunately, remembering is all too easy when I least desire it to be so.
Reality is oh, so ugly.
Nature’s grace is corrupted by that which fuels my yearning to create.
“But I want to create.”
What good will come out of it, though?
Recognition, perhaps.
Satisfaction, most certainly.
However, the path beneath my feet is much too short for such humble reasons to be offered.
Now, I must admit, I have been left utterly dumbstruck.
A song, bright and cheerful, has suddenly erupted
from amidst the mellow slurring of the desolate voices from before.
The fog of my breath slowly dissipates,
and I am yet again amazed by the power of the human mind.
Why is it that I am now just content with simply observing?
Whence before I wished so strongly to participate,
I now only feel appreciation towards the jovial air surrounding me.
I never decidedly consented to such a change of mood,
but I imagine it is a result of something born by nature,
something I won’t be able to understand
due to the destructive capabilities that I, as an intellectual entity, possess.
Again, I return my attention to the outside world.
The sun has dipped below the horizon,
taking with it the glittering beauty of light reflecting off of the surface of a myriad of ice flakes.
I remain immobile as another dismal tune starts up again.
Fields of waving, emerald blades dance behind my closed lids.
Then I remember…
That I have forgotten.
Such are the despairing thoughts of one who has born witness to the uncertainty
and unprecedented fear that his or her own kind share of the unknown.
What a lonely existence.
“I merely wish to be.”
And yet…I know it will snow again tomorrow.
More of a prose piece than a poem, I'd say; however, I couldn't bring myself to label it so. It's simply a stroke of insight.