Cold. It's cold here, but I feel nothing. There is no reason for me to feel anything at all. They said it was winter here, as if it was supposed to mean something. Weather is weather; seasons are meaningless to me. Change is constant no matter when or where, the seasons do not make any difference. Personification of them is human enough, there is little reason to involve me.

Winter or not, cold is something I know. It should be familiar. Second nature. Something inherently understood. To be here in lingered thought is not. Memories serve no important functions; I do not want them. They make one weak, and I am certainly no exception. Without them I would not be here, leaving me to wonder what happened that I must actually stop and think about it.

The consequences are plain. Memories of what I have are useless. They serve an attempt to bind me here unwillingly. They serve as an attempt to chain me to others I have little want to be near. Teams fail. They are not worth relying on. To rely on only yourself is the only way to survive. I have no desire to see fit to the lives and survival of anyone else. Here, I do not have a choice. The chains they bind me with run far too deep.

They never need know. I am myself and I am not moved.

Cold. I would like to be cold as the ice. Little care would await me, but I would welcome it. I relish the thought of such strength. I could have myself and nothing else. Everything would be as it should be. No one else to interfere. No one else to complicate matters in ways that should never be compromised. No one else to lose themselves by beginning to think they care. They are nothing! They lie.

The harsh reality is that no one cares and no one ever will. When the world crashes down on them I will laugh. Deserving is only one way to describe it. If they crumble beneath the weight of the truth, then they deserve to die. A death of the soul that can only be found in their insecure, fragile little minds. Let them fall prey to the darkness of isolation. It is not possible for one to care of anything but themselves.

Ice, tempered by fire, is more deadly than any friendship or camaraderie they can speak of; it is piercing and thorough. It does not leave anything untouched with its cold hollow and burning hate. It is more effective than speaking foolish and pointless words. Words are meaningless in every way; they are easily broken and left for nothing. Disrepair is futile. It proves the waste that comes of anything not done alone.

But disrepair is what keeps me here; who then is more foolish?