of snowy teardrops and illusions drawn in mud

winter's snowglobe.

the outside is smooth, a thick glass protecting the inside. the snow rages on, sometimes angry, full of emotion, but not always noticed. the snow can be gentle, softly casting a spell upon the world inside. the snow is not at all strong, it is weak. the snowglobe is only a copy - a copy of the real snow that we're blessed with. is it a curse? or is it the cure? in fact, it is both and none of the two. it can bring happiness, it can bring sorrow. either way it is something to be appreciated. but like everything else, time quickens it's death. it comes without warning, and goes without a whisper. sometimes, it brings silence.

no one but the wind and the trees pay respect. real snow may go when the days grow warmer, but not the snowglobe. unless it is broken, unless it is harmed, it shall snow. forever. the little red houses with those festive colours don't mind anymore. the little figure standing alone will always be alone. but they have a lifeless companion.

in snow.

pandora's box.

inside is a pattern of pencil drawings, an abstract collection of sketches, of thin marker and pen, of light scratches against paper, images pressed together tightly (like there's too little space), swirling up and down inside the eyelids of one's eyes. you can see the hidden words, boldfaced lettering in mixes of slanted shading and messages in every stroke of the pen. the emotion that fills is overwhelming, as though one's taken a deep breath and has yet to let it go.

and yet no one understands - the blatant drawings of raw emotion, clawing against a stone tablet. no one wants to understand. it's a beautiful, cruel world; can't anyone see? it's clear. clear, transparent - like water.

like mud.