The Snow Persists, But It Ultimately Means Nothing
WEATHER UPDATE: Consider the snowflake. It is said to be unique in formation. It falls, and either makes contact with the pavement and leaves no impression or manages to somehow stick about for a bit. Whether it immediately dissolves or is eventually shoveled away into an undignified pile with its surviving brethren-no two of whom are alike, remember-its eventual fate is to fade into the ether, traceless and forgotten. Soon enough, more snow falls, and the snowflake that fell earlier is not even a memory, not even part of an accretion of memories. In spite of its singularity, it fell, it disappeared, and the world continued to spin. We human beings are a lot like snowflakes: We believe in our own uniqueness, we yearn to leave our marks, and our inevitable ends are proof that all is meaningless and we are essentially unnecessary. Anyway, the current wintry mix will revert to pure snow later this evening. There's some serious slush on the sidewalks right now, so be careful. I wouldn't want you to slip as you make your way to your empty home and pointless existence.
And then we die alone. In the rain.
No need to worry, I take my pointless existence with me wherever I go–you never know when it might come in handy.
A clean, well-shoveled place.
Hills like white elephants (wait a minute …)
My home is not as empty as my existence is pointless.
You are not a unique and beautiful snowflake.
But then along comes Wilson Bentley, and he makes it all worthwhile. He is the Mary Tyler Moore of snowflakes.
Shut up and slip already, so I can offer to kiss it better.
As a life-long depressive and currently living in a city that has recently had 40+ inches of snow, I think you should just snap out of it, Mr. Balk. It's not going to get you anywhere good.
Dear Snow
I ball you up
Like panties all bunched.
A projectile
Dense and hurtful
But how many times has the water in that snowflake been in a snowflake before?
Slut!
The difference: the snowflakes are quiet about it. We, on the other hand, tend to complain. Oh, and it's impossible not to reference the end of Joyce's The Dead here: "His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."
Here or in the last weather report, whichever.
Hail, on the other hand, is nature gettin' wacky!
The whole world is a vast moving screen of snow. It says peace. It says sleep.
Snow, snow
It falls on my hair
It falls on my face
It falls on my ear
-A poem I wrote as a young child. THINK ABOUT IT.
Hey, but at least we have sex, amiright?
*bourbon
That concoction of Jolie's that is guaranteed to make you dance nude in the snow.
Someone's not a winter person!
Everybody melts.
Needs bleaker alt-text.
You are my mother.
This post left me cold.