the approach of winter

The cold creeps in like the thief. Its presence is neither announced nor felt. It builds up on the outskirts of our senses. We never know of its intentions until the moment it rushes in. When it is too late, we find it everywhere around us. Encased within its cold blue arms, there is no way out. Its grip is as hard as ice, crushing us into submission. The cold slides its freezing palm across our cheeks. All trace of warmth is drawn away and the cold clings on. The cold always remains. The cold draws us toward its motherly breast when it feels that we have suffered it too much. It takes away all suffering, all feeliing, and the sense of touch. As we lay in its midst, we no longer feel its terror. Perhaps by then we do not even know what terror is, or perhaps we do not know anything except to lie there and keep silent. As silent as the cold. Then it snuffs us out as if we were a gentle flame. All warmth is gone. The cold invades. It pursues and harasses. We are powerless in its might. Like a blade it draws itself along our necks, awaiting the command to cut. When cold cuts, its cut is so clean it would seem that its victim was never whole to begin with. As clean as steel, just as steel is cold. The cold is cold-hearted. It is merciless and its massacre is horrendous. It gives no quarter. When it comes swarming around its victim, life no longer proceeds past that suffering stage. Life is preserved in cold. An everlasting life is forged. A life in death. The cold is a blunt blade. It is blunt with its words, going straight to the point of its will. It clutches you by the neck and tells you. It tells you what it wants. It tells you to let it claim your life. It tells you that you are powerless. It tells you that you fear. The cold summons fear. It summons hate and curses from men as well. But it summons fear more than any other. All fear the cold. Both the cold and fear are born together. One does not come without the other. The man who does not fear the cold is a doomed man. The cold is a cruel device, always sneering with its smile so lacking of charm. Like a thousand flying daggers, it stabs us in every possible way in all its grace. Though loved by some and hated by others, the cold hates all.