through feathered pens inked with blood and a scarred soul of overflowing abysmal ideologies; there sits an obscured entity, scribbling metaphors and ironies in a crumpled paper of her chaos, seeking for something out of all nothings.
and here she u...
اوووه! هذه الصورة لا تتبع إرشادات المحتوى الخاصة بنا. لمتابعة النشر، يرجى إزالتها أو تحميل صورة أخرى.
the arctic gusts of december nipped through my frostbit skin as i breathed the cold and exhaled the wintery fog of smoke. i was shivering underneath the flickering streetlights of the townʼs desolated park, mindlessly counting the snowflakes that had fell upon my reddish rudolph-like nose. trembling in the christmas eveʼs cryogenic breeze, i threw all my reluctant inhibitions away and played a classical song through my old cassette tape; i couldnʼt care less if i looked like a preposterous loner dancing the night away, shamelessly possessing a body of a stiff, rigid ballerina.
as claude debussyʼs musical piece resonated across the lonesome park, i have rolled a small snowball into the piles of snow and made my own snowman which i named olaf. unique, isn't he? there was a sudden rush of adrenaline, and i started throwing snowballs unto olaf and ran around, afraid that he would transcendentally move solely to take his revenge on a petty creature such as me.
once a little too tired of all the useless running, i basked onto a checkered blanket and opened my picnic basket as if it was some magical portal to heavenly-tasting foods. spacing out, i ate some winterberries, wintermelon, blueberry cheesecakes and a rock-hard bagel that i bought from a cheap bakery downtown. iʼm broke enough to afford a luxurious ham that looks like it was cooked by a five-star michelin chef from paris.
at precisely four oʼclock, with the frozen sun and its soft white rays peeking through the gloomy grey skies, i let myself succumb onto the thick blanket of snow and laughed relentlessly while creating snow angels. i took a crashed mistletoe inside my pocket, which i surreptitiously stole from that old womanʼs frontyard garden, and raised it abovehead, kissing my hand like the fool that i was.
december does not need two individuals to celebrate its winter season. sometimes, we only need ourselves and the peculiar warmth brought by solitude.
i may be alone, but i certainly am not lonely. although, i may look like a total fool, but who the hell cares?
