I've always been sick.
For as long as I can remember.
All I know is that something happened.
But I was too young to remember it now. It doesn't matter anyway.
No one will ever tell me about 'the accident'.
It is only mentioned in whispers and behind closed doors, the voices forbidden to reach my ears.
I am a prisoner in my own body here. Cooped up in my room with only the lights from the stars and moon to guide my way.
The doctors, my parents, they all say the same things.
They tell me I can't go outside anymore, it's too risky. They tell me school can be here at home. They tell me I could die so easily. The outside world is dangerous.
The outside world will kill you.
The Moon tells me otherwise.
It tells me I have something else to live for, some meaning to my life in this world other than the sorry existence I have come to know.
So I tell them they are wrong.
I tell them I can survive, but they just stomp out the flames of my passion for freedom. They say the cold would kill me before I could take one step into the snow. I'd have no chance, they say. It is always winter here.
Though quietly, each night, I slip out of my bed and walk to the window when everyone's asleep. There awaits the frost.
It climbs up the window and shows me pictures and designs, snowflakes dancing together in harmony. I trace them with my finger and look to the Moon.
Every winter on the day of the winter solstice, a new beautiful frost decorates my window sill.
On this 17th year of frost, the Moon has spoken to me.
It tells me, that I will feel the touch of snowflakes on my skin.
It swears to me, that I will now control my own destiny.
It promises me, that I will be waiting outside to greet winter this year.