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Two takes on winter

By Seditious the Terrible

The winter is bitter, for she is cold and scornful. Winter is a vixen with venomous gelid lips, who spits pools of white velvet from her mouth at the solstice to coax humanity into a false sense of yule. Winter is Janus-faced, she is morose, but at her core she is cynical. Winter knows she is the executioner of the golden vibrant autumn, the merciless assassin of the remaining warmth of summer. Winter is exhausted and withered, so she paints the sky as if it were midnight at only four hours past noon, just so she can sleep away her despair. Winter wants to escape her morbid duties, but she can’t, so she projects her arctic frustration onto the landscape. She sardonically paints a temporary tundra with her masterful palette of grey, silver, and white, using her frost-bitten finger tips to whip the colors around the canvas with a biting wind. She is bleak and inherently destructive, coating all she touches in a sleek sheet of ice so mortal beings can feel the incomprehensible pain that she must face for eons without end. Winter is bittersweet and despondent, forced to be the catalyst in an infinite cycle of death and rebirth, tasked with the mournful and somber burden of ending life. Winter’s polar anguish knows no bounds, fueled by millennia after millennia of guilt.

The iridescence of the snow in the sunlight, that’s the only thing I enjoy out of the entire season. The color shifts of the trillions of tiny opalescent crystals that are haphazardly piled on the ground, heaps of pearls, diamonds, and moonstones that fuse into one magnificent landscape before my eyes. The snow is perfect, as if the sky brought hoards of the galaxies brightest stars to my feet, their prismatic luminosity cleansing my soul. Snow in the sunlight is one of the only things that bring me pure childlike joy. I want to string each microscopic frosted shard of sunlight onto a necklace, preserving each individual snowflake’s flawless polychromatic glow, forever draped across my collarbones out of fear of losing them. I adore the snow for it’s pure shimmering beauty, how it shifts in its surroundings from deep blue, white, silver, gold, and pink. Each frosted jewel captures the surrounding light and morphs it into a nacreous masterpiece, as if the goddess Iris blessed it herself.

*Iris is the Greek/ Roman goddess of rainbows

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" Diet Mountain dew baby New York City"

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Isolation on the boardwalk

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The Things I Carry

by Seditious the Terrible

A mangled canvas tote, grey and floral spattered across it, the straps worn to the strings, thread bare and rough against my fingertips. I carry my world in that poor old thing. Coins, only quarters to pay for parking, eyedrops, pencils and a small sketchbook when I feel like gracing some pages with harsh graphite strokes. A tin of rose bud salve for cracked cuticles and chapped lips from dehydration, and of course whatever book I’m burning through at the time. Sunglasses to paint the world in a more tolerable shade, and gum to suffice for whatever lunch and dinner should be. Benadryl just in case, because I never know when my fickle immune system will attack. Throw a tantrum over some cashews, a bee sting, whatever I convince myself I’m deathly allergic to that day, that week, that never ending month. Money, ones and fives littering that poor old sack, beaten to a literal pulp. Physically that’s all I carry, it’s what the public sees, what the cashier at some counter sees while I frantically rummage for change, what some kid at the park sees poking through, what I glance down at and fiddle with when I’m bored. It can’t be more than a pound and that’s being gracious, yet I lug it around like it weighs a ton.

           Shoulders stooped, neck forward, head down, steps shaky and labored. I look like atlas trudging down the street to the dismay of some frigid bystanders. Oh, I walk a precarious walk, like my shoes are made of lead and I haven’t slept a wink in days, years, even eons. But what I physically carry never causes this, the weight of my mere tote is nothing compared to that of my head. My mind. I carry memories and experiences that haunt me, but I just lumber on, clomp clomp clomp.  I think about my father, slain by his own hand. Ten years old and forced to debate my own mortality, screaming at the heavens on my tire swing, grasping the only definitive thing in life is death, I mean pretty bright for a ten-year-old right? Clomp clomp clomp. Thinking about how many calories is in my sweat, how long I can fast until my body breaks, if I can spontaneously develop and anaphylactic reaction from the surrounding pollen, I haven’t touched peanut butter in years. Thinking about my public meltdown at the ice cream parlor, thinking of the punks who would make pig noises at me. Reminiscing about the distain I would get from looking in a mirror, now I can’t look away if I tried. Clomp clomp clomp. Deciphering whether I had too much caffeine or if I’m having a heart attack. Staying in bed for hours, not touching school work for weeks. Clomp clomp clomp. It’s all invisible, it’s literally all in my head, my very cranium being an iron ball, my spine acting as a chain. They’re microscopic in the grand scheme of things and it’s all champagne problems, but they’re my champagne problems, and it feels like someone shattered my goddamned glass. I don’t think about that, I trudge my little trudge, clasp my little tote, shuffle on. Clomp clomp clomp.

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