snow and associated processes

The maddening whiteness of all the world.
The tree-trunks, and arms and branches and twigs, all covered in snow, invisible against the pale greyness of the sky.
The wee birds upsetting the frail balance of the snow clusters on the branches. The minute avalanches in the soundless out-of-the-window world.

The sun peeping thru the clouds and the snow glittering like so much of .. salt.
The transport stuck everywhere, angrily immobile in the slush-covered streets.
The unreality of the snowstorm: when there is no difference between the up and down, right, left or any other direction.
The slippery paths and the imprints of the fallen humans in the whiteness of the snow.

The thin sharp needles that cut the darkness of the world.
Snow that reflects all the shades of the setting sun, suddenly pink, rouge, blood-lit, purple, blue.
What is whiteness then?
Undoubtedly, snow is white. Undoubtedly, it is any other colour, too.
Whiteness then, does not exist. Or does it, still?

Whiteness of snow exists in the clichés of the language. Like – white as snow. Snow MUST be white. Just like small children must be unspoilt and grandmothers are supposed to be nice. And not unlike the snow not being white, they are not.
Whiteness of snow makes me want to transfer Christmas to some other time of the year. Yeah, just like the snow must be white, so must the people be good, at least for the Xmas season. The most hypocritical and mask-wearing time of the year.
I am tired of the masks and the clichés this culture and my position imposes on me. Even when I am transparent, the others will not see thru me, as they do not believe in transparency. Even when I am wearing no mask, I will be perceived as wearing one.

The masks are on the eyes of the viewers, most of the time. The splinters of the Distorted mirror, deep inside. Irremovable. Those splinters make the snow white and create the masks for those that have only the face to boast of, thus depriving them of the only security they might have had.

The janitor is scraping it off with his shovel.
The sound penetrates everything.
A grey salt-path in the middle of the fur of the drift.
Put out the seeds for the birds. They will not say thank you. They will simply eat them.

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