Chapter Text
PART ONE:
Snow
Snow: fierce, cruel, and intense.
Snow: peaceful, pure, and stunning.
How one word can be so diametrically opposed nipped at his mind like the bitter frost on the tip of his nose. How could something be so bleak, yet so intriguing at the same time? To him, it made no sense. One cannot be emotional and aloof at the same time. Nor can one be black and white simultaneously. You must pick one. There is no room for varying shades of gray in this world, only the dullness of the black and the luster of white.
Snow was a part of him, he came to realize. Snow embodied him. Snow was the intense lover and the pure pianist that played at church. Snow was the peaceful Saturdays spent in the living room, while also being the cruel, drawn-out arguments. Perhaps, he wonders, that is why he was so utterly annoyed by snow. He wanted to understand it, but he couldn't. That is to say, he couldn't understand himself. He so desperately wanted to know the powdery-mess inside and out. However, in order to truly understand snow, you had to get close to it. Get close to it; touch it, mold it, shape it, and melt it.
Melted snow, he discovered, was more annoying than the solid, unbroken snow outside. Melted snow got everywhere; in your clothes, boots, gloves, and skin. While the unbroken and flat snow outside was relentless, pristine, and unbothered. He realized rather quickly, to be melted snow, you had to let someone touch you; touch you in such a way you melt in their hands, like butter- or even worse, snow. Sex and blowjobs did not portain to this matter. Though the fearful squeezing of hands, the hugs of condolences, and the reluctant kiss at the altar turned the purity of snow lackluster. In his examination of snow, under his careful eye, he determined that physical touch does not melt snow as badly as emotional touch melts snow. Nothing was worse than slowly melting and chipping away from the inside out. It was easier to manage as you allowed yourself to freeze over and become numb.
He knew that the other type of snow, the snow he liked significantly better, was much easier to manage. The unbreakable snow could only be broken apart by time. Melted snow caused more issues than it solved; fights, accidents, and almost irreversible mistakes. The unbroken snow, the snow almost like ice, could only be chipped at slowly. One blow at a time, and before the second blow could be delivered, the snow was already beginning to build itself back up again.
Snow always melts in the end of the winter season, which to him, was the omen of his future. He would melt eventually. It was inevitable. Everyone melted in the end. Now, whether he melted by means of slipping into a slumber he never wakes from, drinking himself to his demise, or laying belly-up on a cold, metal table, he is painfully aware that he must melt one day.
PART TWO:
Sunglasses
A pair of sunglasses. One of the most versatile accessories in any wardrobe; an article of many uses. Now whether that be shielding one's eyes from the Mediterranean sun as one desperately tries to tan on a beach in Italy. Or while in Belarus, sunglasses hide one's puffy, swollen, and most definitely red eyes after they had cried for several hours. In Paris, they block out the early morning sun as one stalks their way to the local market to get several bottles of sparkling water after a very long night of drinking with friends. And most importantly, in Germany, sunglasses protect one's identity. Even if it's for a short while. It's just long enough to allow one to pick up their rather embarrassing prescriptions, or an oversized haul of chocolates and sweets to enjoy over a nice weekend; all to avoid judgment and the discovery of one's identity.
At age eighteen, sunglasses became a part of his daily wardrobe. It was a much more selfish reason as opposed to why he wears them today. At age eighteen, it didn't matter if it was hours or only a few seconds he needed to be outside, he wore sunglasses. Selfishly, he wanted no one to know who he was. He did not want to be caught dead in the slums of Slovakia, shelters of Moldova, or even in close proximity of Eastern Europe. Selfishly, he half-hazardly did tasks such as assisting in a kitchen, something he had never done for himself, much less thousands of people. Selfishly, he rolled his eyes and groaned when being asked to help with the washing and folding. Selfishly, he called his parents every Sunday evening, cursing them and screaming about how much he hated it there and how much he hated them. Selfishly, his entire life, even now, he takes his privilege for granted.
Sunglasses are like a mask to him, hiding the windows to one's soul. At age eighteen he wanted no one to know how selfish and resentful he was, so he hid behind dark-amber lenses. Although sunglasses did little to nothing to help hide his attitude, it hid the way he had pathetically rolled his tearing eyes when asked to pitch in. Or when his hands began to cramp while taking clothing off the line, sunglasses hid his tearing eyes, but it didn't hide the scowl permanently plastered on his fine-lips. It wasn't until those dark-amber glasses broke when he was departing the airport in Serbia that he finally saw things in a new light.
His sunglasses were completely blown off his face by a harsh late-spring wind, shattering the fragile lenses in between the metal frames. As he hurriedly picked up the shards of glass and tossed away the bits, he distinctly remembered the burning his sensitive eyes felt from the sun beating down. He distinctly remembered having to squint as he waited for the bus outside that day. The entire month of May, whenever he stepped out of any building, his eyes never felt quite used to the sun. Even within the thirty-days that he had to adjust, he never quite felt like he had smoothly transitioned to a completely bare face.
He surely got some stares while exposing himself to the public, some handshakes, and a few hugs whenever he stepped into the world. But he also gained humility. He was no longer blocked from the light of day. No longer a bystander to the bad. No longer just another kink in the chain that continued for centuries. No longer stuck repeating the same childish mannerism that he had been doing before.
Sunglasses are still utilized for his vain purposes. They are to hide the puffy redness of his eyes after a horrible hangover, or to hide half of his face as he walks from place to place, and to allow himself to feel slightly-normal while he lives through his first-world problems. Despite all this, he no longer sees through rose and amber shaded lenses. Sunglasses are not a crutch for a horrible attitude and outlook on life, he has learned. Since he has found sight, that fateful day in late-March sunglasses will be used for what they are. A beautiful mask of temporary normality.