Far off. In a field, I am running toward a river. My dog flailing at my side. Camera slung around my neck; snow crunching under my boots, patches of sheer delicate ice flattened with each footfall.
Out of breath. Over land. Sun crusted on uneven ground I stumble and angry tears come and I don't know why except to think that the world is brushing up too close to my skin. The evocation of lacy ice and silver snow is beautiful, isn't it, and yet it is never just beauty but something crushing and shattering and annihilating just like it is never just rain, but something with the potential to drench and drown. What lies beneath the loveliness are unbearable aberrations: attractive well-educated boys with bombs in their backpacks or holy, abusive two-faced priests who never serve justice; beauty and beast, gorgeous and ugly, foxy charmers that delude over and over, again. Words never and always are just as impossible to convey how I feel dragged through the mud on this perfect day under a brilliant sun, far off in a field running toward a river, moving carelessly, skirting obstacles and landing on my knees, fallen down.