WRITING: Mood

The snow is weighing down on me, each flake an ironweight under its alias of feather. Grey days take the color out of life, and store it…where? Slowly we wean ourselves from the breasts that gave us milk and honey, but unlike the newly born we are built of memories of good and evil and are soon pawing at the skies and at each other for the vibrant rainbow that we knew. Perhaps until a snickering white haired, white robed god has satisfied his jealousy, and then, and only then, will we be offered filtered sun as compensation. And used to that, we pout and plaintively adapt and discontent again, we grumble, wanting more.