I complain a lot about the cold, but I don’t think I could live in a place without winter. True winter. Deep, snowy quiet, hoarfrost, and the perfect clarity of cold. Black limbs cloaked in crystalline frost. Cold so true that you hear and feel an immense cracking of ice under your feet and you fly, not in fear of falling through, but in fear of something huge beneath you, something immense and abysmal beyond your understanding. You hear it booming in the night, and it lulls you to sleep, in spite of the fact that it frightens you from your core. The Aurora breathes above you, steals your breath away.
In the morning, these vast expanses of light and colour. The silence when it snows; the truest silence, the most perfect. And the glitter on the snow at night, the reflection of endless stars on a landscape that is alien and perfect all at once. The silence, the silence.
A star-crossed winter child.
(Source: odditiesoflife, via erotic-equestrian)