Snow. I have never found anything quite like, the way it falls down around my feet, through my hair, disintegrating into my skin and pores, becoming a part of me. The pristine ice cold air that chokes your lungs and the wonderful smoke that echoes from the depths of your lungs as you breathe out. I used to pretend to smoke cigarettes when I was a child, inhaling on hidden twigs in the forest and breathing out my fake smoke. I found many ways to amuse myself in the forest.
I am a slave to this masochism. I find it my only escape, yet sadly none of my creative talents will flourish and develop themselves properly, and I will always wear a red ribbon. Always falling short and farther behind, but this doesn't concern me. I'm just happy to have a place here, to be a piece that they need.
I used to have a family. I keep their photographs on the stone walls, amidst dozens of model planes, to remind me that I am the flesh and blood of true abuse and brutality. I surround myself in this comfort, that perhaps I am just a little dark enough to belong here. My new family accepts me in a strange way. They don't really understand me, and I don't attempt to understand them. An entire language is separating us besides, and I know they laugh behind my back at the funny way I pronounce their foreign words. English tastes too strange in my mouth. They love me though, in their own way, but I don't need to hang photographs on the wall to know this.
Every year I spend here I find myself craving winter, that sweet familiarity of the snow, and the crisp taste and scent in the air that it brings with it. During the winter it almost feels like both of my families have found each other and made amends with myself and the others. I can spend my time hiding in the forest and pretending to smoke cigarettes in nothing but a shirt and regular pants. The cold here doesn't affect me, not like the cold I'm used to. I know that somewhere out there in this world, somebody does miss me. I just haven't figured out who yet.