The clutch of winter’s cold hand chokes the air out of me just a little bit more every day. I gasp for air, but it is a lifeless, most un-sufficing sort of air. I don’t desire the oxygen, but I need it to survive. As I tread through the gray city streets the wind has a peculiar way of always flowing against me. The snow banks, by this time of year, are no longer white and pretty. No. They are *****, worn out, aching for their inevitable fate to remove them from this depressing city. But they know they still have many weeks before their suffering ends. I feel a connection with them, knowing that someday my time will come.
However, long before my inevitable death, many new summer times will spring forth much life. Soon, the air will hold life again. The wind will suddenly shift away from my face, the sun will shine a little brighter, and the poor snow banks will be taken out of their misery and replaced with green grass. I only know this because it happens every year, and I have no reason to believe this year should be any different. It is this knowledge that carries me through the grind of winter. Don't worry, your gray days will pass.
An unusually straight forward approach.
