In, out. My lungs accept the snow.
The sky is grey. It isn't particularly menacing; it feels warm, yet ancient and old, like Zeus's stormy visage gazing down at me. The snow falls slowly, muffling all noise except for my quiet, crunching footsteps like I'm stepping on styrofoam. Strangely, it isn't very easy to breathe. The bite of the cold normally refreshes me when I walk through the woods, snapping at my skin like a paradoxically gentle whip.
In, out. My lungs are drowning in the snow.
I glance around as I trudge onward, the chilling flecks cascading from my jeans. The trees gaze over me, steely-faced fathers, their branched arms held high over my head; yet they feel too angular, too sharp, unlike the natural curves of nature.
I trip over a frozen mound of soil, its awkwardly sunken form clawing at my legs. As I fall, it looms behind me, glassy stones - eyes - peering into my chest. Logs next to it scratch at me with their protrusions. Quickly, I shove off, dropping my exhausted frame into a soft dune.
In, out. My lungs are full of snow.
I'm so tired... need to rest. My eyes begin to close as the steeled, angular trees crumble around me. I hear the far-off wail of a dying animal.
The black, bitter snow covers my nose, my hands, my eyes, my chest, and I fall asleep. It always seemed so much whiter when I was young.
