The Pain in Preservation

I walked outside, my breath forming a cloud in front of me.

I saw the snow in my yard, but disregarded it- it was nothing new at this point.

Then I did a double take. I noticed something new about it. A sheet of ice had completely coated the top layer, preserving it precisely how it was.

The sight absorbed me.

Only a day ago, it was just snow. It had the potential to be whatever I could make it.

If it was feeling creative, it could be made into a snowman.

If it was feeling guarded, it could be made into a fortress.

If it was feeling agitated, it could be balled and thrown at people.

If it was feeling gentle, it could be made into an angel.

But now, for no other reason, other than the environment it was unwillingly in, it had been affected.

It had been changed.

It had been transformed into the perfect preservation of its most limited self, simply because it had gone too long without addressing anything new; without considering what it really wanted to be.

Sure, it appears the same to everyone else. It's still white. It's still cold. It's still there.

I am the epitome of everything I judge.

I am the studier of a inanimate object, simply because it has the unexplainable propensity to remind me of something intangible: a feeling, a concept, a sentiment.

I am a memory. A lagging one, that seems to conduct my resolutions today.

I am the perfect preservation of everything I did not become. The perfect reminder for motivation, limitation, self-deprecation, and inflation.

An alibi. A comfort. A listener.

A reason.