The silence of snow

There is something to be born from the debris of the city. Something that can save us all. If the sky has nothing new to offer then let salvation come from underneath.

After the nightmares he trained himself to stay awake. All the time. He kept the window open and learned how to live with the cold winter days. His skin was getting rough and grey. His lips were now white and his hair was growing wild. He kept as quiet as possible, he did not want to draw unwanted attention. He spent most of the day lying on the carpet floor, looking at the ceiling, holding a glass of water over his chest. This kept him from falling asleep. Day and night were becoming the same, the only way he could tell the difference was by listening carefully. At night, the whispers would start creeping into the empty holes in the walls, any breach of solidness was now the home of these empty voices. The voices of coldness.

As I prepare myself to face this terror I understand how these empty walls have served me as a home serves a family. I will leave no trace, no memories, but these walls will keep the secrets in the silence I shared with them. They will keep one of us safe, if one is lucky enough to find it. I will not be a fool and wish for this world to remember me. Time is harsh on us and it shall be harsh as long as humans live. I am a human, still, but today that is my weakness. I will pretend that life has left me, no time and no history will be able to spell my name. I will have no name in the hope that one day, sinners will break the silence.

As he walked into the street the sound of his steps was buried in the thick snow.

Angel, the first appearence

Nightmares were another sour companion that took him by the hand. He tried to keep his eyes wide open for as long as he could during the long nights but eventually sleep would take over and obliged to close his eyes he would enter the labyrinths his own mind had been brewing all throughout the light hours. As they became a certainty, he became unable to escape and open his eyes, he was trapped in a world he didn't want to belong in but this world just kept dragging him down, draining his childhood memories and thoughts of joy. Since he realized the only images he cherished were being eaten away he kept a diary of events, things he wanted to remember and make his own again once this was all over. That night, he scribbled and drew the happiest memory of all for he could feel the nightmares were looking for it.

Remember the green grass, almost too bright for the old eyes I have now but the same eyes that were once one with the yellow sun. I can hear the sea, the powerful waves crashing against the rocks leaving a trace of white tears that will be washed away by the next one. Rolling around in the grass makes my skin itchy and my hands have tiny little cuts all over them. No blood comes out, these cuts are not harmful or painful, it's just the way grass plays with children. My crayons are spread all over the infinite green sheet and so are those white pages that will soon be filled with drawings of knights, dinosaurs and my dog. I start a brand new creation, filling the page with blue on the top and a smiley sun on the top left corner, I stand up to fetch the dark blue crayon and the white that will paint the waves for my sea. Soon I have the beach in my garden and I'm holding it with my hands, stained with the colours of the rainbow. I like it but there's something missing, there's a space right in the middle where sea and sky meet that is yelling for something more. I focus on it as hard as I can, almost closing my eyes. Suddenly, silence. No more sea, no more wind, just silence. A stream of light appears from that empty space in my drawing as I hold it tighter and closer. Then a voice says: "Hold fast to the human inside you and you will survive".

sinners - an introduction

No matter how many people walk into the same room, the coldness is always present. There could be hundreds of human bodies and the more there are the colder it gets. Bless the sinners who brake the silence, bless those who chose not to walk into this room and bless the courageous ones for leaving it in time for salvation. Paranoia takes place in the minds of those who are human and I blame the cold ones for triggering the guns that shoot them so hard. Sinners have no regrets for they enjoy life but they can get trapped in the mesh that frost creates. There is real dark red blood running through the sinner's veins that will pump to the sound of music and stream flows of warmth. If frosts takes over, they're gone. Few have the chance to run away, for the frost doesn't allow them to move...


... and if you look into the sinner's eyes after life has left its body you'll see a sparkle fading away, into a void of coldness, and you'll know that life will never be welcome again.

He kept hiding and writing through the night, reminding himself what it was like to be a sinner. Sooner or later he would have to step out in the streets to find others like him. Hope didn't walk past his window, only the empty fog kept him company. He dreamt about the days when he'd been hope himself but those were distant memories now, there was nothing that could possibly resemble the brightness of the faces he once saw on the streets. This was a different place, a different time...

...and now, he was turning into something different too.

redemption 0.1

He looks out the window into the street, blowing the cigarette smoke upwards into the black sky. Frost has taken over the city and everything is still, even the people walking seem still. Their steps are programmed, they've been planned for centuries to avoid unexpected situations. There's no space for unpredictable events, no music in their shoes. He turns around, disappointed, thinking that the best thing humans have is being wasted in those stubborn steps. His room is a shelter from this coldness of acts but he knows he can't hide for long. The theater of cheery voices, music, joy is fading away in his own head. It might be contagious he thinks, but there's no doctor to cure this condition. These sins have been spreading their branches for far too long. No medicine, no drug, no whiskey is going to cure this. He finds redemption in his writings...


It's hard to be human and even harder to be human amongst other humans. Conceptions of right and wrong are overrated, we're all too demanding. A step into the streets is a step into the biggest of all freezers. Isolation happens mostly in cold cities, commodities are there to make it easier. "Leave me alone" is the message written across people's foreheads. I thought we had something more to give, something warmer, something chemical. No music plays when people talk, they all sound like computerized machines programmed to speak. What happened to poetry? What happened to joy?

What happened to humans?