Winter, you unapologetic mistress, you uninhibited tyrant; like Death, you run around with a cape, with a robe on, and you drape it over everything so intrinsically that I can never tell with precision where the grayness begins or where it ends. All I know, even with my eyes closed, is that everything is gray, and the sky is but a heavy blanket weighing everything down with the stillness of a frozen tree branch.

Ruthlessly, you take away my daylight and force my days to be spent at half-gleam, always looking over my shoulder to identify the careless howls of cold wind against hurried pedestrians walking beside me. Like a tree bud, I retire into myself, I hibernate; involuntarily, I throw all my bets into the waiting game, letting my eyes get fooled by mirages of blossoming flowers here and there, woeful in their own haste. In tidal waves of frozen days and balmier days, weeks go by in a solid block, never changing but nevertheless advancing through the calendar.

And then, sometimes, you tease us all – you show us spectacularly blue twinkling skies that ignominiously defeat Summer, cloud her memory with shame. Do you, on purpose, juxtapose the ugliest cold rainy day with a breathtaking view of bright winter suns?, for the effect is undeniable. Like a moth attracted to the flame, we take your bait and walk outside, often to be swept off our hope carriages by volatile, frigid, merciless winds, and yet the sun on the skin feels like a treat. You are the worst kind of lover, forever dangling the promise in front of our very eyes and turning away to walk away at the last second.

Winter, I think I despise you. You turn my skin an ugly faded olive color, and you wrestle me against the couch, telling me to stay there and just be a good girl and patiently wait until you’re not busy anymore. Or do I love you because you make me withdraw so deep into myself that I have no choice but to scrape off the words from my innards and translate them into text? At times, you leave me speechless, like when I gaze upon the tiny dots the colorful Christmas lights make against the rich velvety navy sky. They seem to sing, a slow ballad of lazy falling snowflakes that begs hey, look at me. I am pretty in way even the bright colors of Autumn can’t outshine.

This is all to say, I have resolved to not let you hold all that much power against me, and I will turn you into a story and a poem and a song, and as I curse you under my breath when my running shoes are pounding the chilly pavement outside, I’ll also secretly be thankful I can choose to ignore you in utter defiance of all that you stand for. Even when I occasionally give in, lose a battle, and let my sun-starved body sit on my favorite chair with a book on my lap, pouting and willing to sacrifice anything to be sweating in the heat; I will get over your tight iron grip around the weather forecast, calling for rain and gray skies for the next foreseeable future, and perhaps – just maybe – I’ll try to find some beauty in you.

“Let us step into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.”
Albus Dumbledore