I find it intriguing how the snow flutters down so peacefully, and settles on the surface of this earth without the feelings of worry and regret. Like pieces of the clouds came to visit the grounds they float so high above, bringing gifts of frozen water from the sky. If the pure, white snow were ever to change color according to the person who sees it, then I assume I'd see red, because it's all I've ever known, and all I've ever believed.
Kenny McCormick. The one who always dies, yet the memory never seems to stick in everyone's head.
I've never been the kind of guy who dwells on things, but I haven't been able to wrap my mind around it, not in the slightest. Assuming it had been a curse from God, I had shunned him (not that I was very religious to start with), but when I realized how stupid a thing it was to grudge upon, I gave up and blamed it on some unknown force.
Anyways, I digress.
The beautiful, yet haunting color of red is the color that had passed my eyes the most, and the color that I had worn the most (save for this god awful orange parka). It makes sense, though. When I die, I bleed, and the liquid paints my limbs. Although it's a horrible sight and feeling, that I have experienced so much, it doesn't seem to effect me anymore. Not like it used to. The biggest differentiation between snow and that familiar red liquid is the level of comfort each holds, and here, as I lay jacket-less in the snow, I find a strange comfort hidden in the frosty pillows. That comfort doesn't turn me red, but a magnificent shade of purplish-blue, making me unable to move and feel. Who would've thought that this cold, white, innocent chill could make me turn such a color, and feel so comfortable? My eyes drift shut and my breathing shallows. Yes. No longer red, but blue. My life begins to fade and I sigh.
Maybe, one day, I will be greeted with the sight of blue snow. To comfort and hide me from the horrible color red.