Everyday we walk.
Along the many twisted roads of life, our footsteps leaving trails in the brush of snow.
Our roads were paved for us. We are the children of the Capitol. Made to believe, and made to think. Shaping our footsteps. Modeling us. Forming.
We grow up watching other's footsteps ending abruptly, televised, glamorized.
As the truth is slowly uncovered under the powdery snow, splattered with the innocence of so many,
we become the enemies.
Suddenly, the tables have knocked our footsteps out of place, and the snow is far colder than we remember it being...
So
very
cold.
The Mockingjay pecks at our feet, forcing us along, the fire twisting and dancing down our forgotten path, melting the snow, erasing what we once called home.
No one forgets, of course, others are plagued by the time when the cold breeze misted and danced, and the snow fell heavy.
But we remember simpler times.
And when memories are gone, all we have is footsteps, but now, even those are burnt and twisted in the growing flame.
We are the Capitol children, with our snow covered treads, but now all we know is fire.
And we are getting burned.