Cold is...

(yup it's a long and totally pointless post, because you all know what cold is)

an unfamiliar, large empty room with high ceilings. An eerie line of light from a gap where the blinds don't quite meet the width of the windows. The deepest winter night, wrapped up in a thick blanket with the heater on full blast and all windows closed; but still freezing.

chilling winds gently rocking a lift chair suspended high above the slopes. Sitting with no assurance that the heavy skiis attached to your boots will not plummet into the (deceptively soft) white snow below. Hands numb from wet gloves, clasping tightly to the metal rails.

sitting on a lone bench in the middle of a park with stretches of grass on all sides. A park from which, in the distant horizon, a row of high rises can be seen. Not believing that the vast spaces are empty, wondering if anyone hides behind the night cover. Shivering uncontrollably inside a fur coat.

breathing out a magical ball of mist with every puff you let out. Marvelling at it like a child; knowing it's condensation but being fascinated nonetheless.


Once upon a time an artist completed a painting. He was mesmerised, delighted! A scene rich in harmonious colours, with exquisite details, with life. (The rainforest. Grass green, dark green, dull green, crisp green. Fine rays of sunshine shy through the rustling leaves. A fresh scent lingers, the dampness seeps through the canvas, the birds are gliding out of the page...)

He continued to paint. But none matched the one he had completed. His skills and techniques were unchanged, but in light of his masterpiece, they were mere shadows, without colour, without magic. After numerous failed attempts, the joy of art was lost to him.

The artist was contented with his works before the painting changed him. If by some power you could decide, would you have let him create this masterpiece?

Design in CSS by TemplateWorld and sponsored by SmashingMagazine
Blogger Template created by Deluxe Templates