We Are Only Temporary

 It begins without sound. No herald. No rhythm.

Only the falling— slow, indifferent, like thoughts we once had but forgot to finish.

Snow, not as weather, but as message. Illegible. Insistent. Not meant to be read, only felt.

II. The world pauses when it snows. Not stops— pauses.

As if waiting for something to arrive that has already come and gone.

In the stillness, we are revealed. Not in motion, but in our breath. The way it clouds, then vanishes. Like hope. Like names.

III. There are those who dream during snowfall. And there are those who dream of it. They are not the same.

Some catch the flakes— let them melt in their palm like small forgotten promises.

Others walk through it unaware, shoulders bowed, eyes dim, never knowing they are surrounded by something that cannot stay.

IV. I once stood alone in a field of endless white. The sky fell, and I let it.

No path. No sound but the snow. And in that moment, I remembered what it meant to vanish without sorrow.

Snow does not mourn the earth it hides. It simply covers, softly, what the world can no longer bear to see.

V. You are fragile. You always were. And in the cold, that is no weakness— it is revelation.

Let it fall. Let the silence grow. For in the heart of snowfall lies something vast, unspoken— and, perhaps, eternally kind.