Conversations with the Snow

Snow falls down like rain. The sky is grey and the earth is cold. Breath hangs like smoke.

Waking up, the usual dread turned to joy upon the realisation that snow dictated freedom.

A white blanket spread outside the the kitchen window. T ate fruit and stood beside the fridge, glowing like a christmas decoration. I leaned against the sideboard black as a crow and moaned.

J sat on her throne in the red room eminating a faintly luminous liquid, talking in Hebrew. She had drawn the Judgement card, which hung upside down beside her long yellow nails. The children had hung themselves because I hadn't done the tracking. She sentenced me to a life of pitch black 6am starts in miserable commuter trains crammed full of dead people.

I screamed and it all became distorted. I tried to escape, but I wasn't sure how.

D and I sat in a quaint pub beside an orange fire. We drank beer and ate bangers and mash. The calming heat of the woodwork was an emination. It acted as a buffer to the degradation of the cold platform with the hundreds of people and the ceaseless 'delayed' sign on the overhead.

There was a wine glass hanging suspended on the age of the table.

"Why don't you knock it off?" she asked him.

"But do most people not just accept?"

"Somehow I ended volunteering in Mexico. The city was bright and shimmering like a dream"

"But what about the children?" A peal of laughter echoed through the courtyard.

"Sanity will tell you that it is mad to give up, but what if sanity is actually mad? What then?"

"What are you running away from?" asks N, from an underwater cavern.

"Pitch black six am starts on souless commuter trains full of the faces of the dead, floating in a nightmare", thundered a loud voice from the sky. We weren't sure if it was God, because we couldn't see past the beard. I hear a sound float under the snow but I block it out. I waken up and remember that it's all just a dream.

"The misery comes from thinking that you are a person", says the Zen guru from underneath the flowerbed.

"But in my dream if I want to change scene I just blink."

"So why not blink?"

Because I can't see! I guess if all else fails and I'm trapped in that house again, with those people, I can just volunteer.

J asks to see my tracking, and my reports, and my marking, and the pot of gold, and the outstanding juice. I respond by beating myself to death with a heavy text book as the children cheer me on.

Then I remember it's all just a dream and blink.

And it disappears.

I'm lying in the middle of the desert, beside a fire, looking up at the stars.

The commuter train spontaneously combusts in to nothing.