A Child of Dawn

It is an evening where murky orange snow falls.
The corridor, blurred by sleet scattering in disarray, looked like a silent film.

On my way to catch the bus, the orange light was so blinding, it felt like I were watching a sunset that had already passed.

Clutching my fingers that ached from the cold, I sat in the corner of the bus and passed a small forest lined with trees ten times my size. As it traveled through that place, the bus felt like a ferry crossing the river of life.

It plowed through white-piled waves of snow again and again, as if it would never stop. Not until all memory faded, until I disappeared, until I reached the world beyond.

Isn’t it, in those moments when we realize everything must come to an end, that despair quietly arrives?

Between moonlit nights and days brimming with transparent starlight, there is a moment where I long to pause. If the moon, leaning into the deep purple sky, were to stop and never fall beyond the horizon, then I would become a child of dawn.

At the place where round tears meet angular hearts, I will read my life.

At the sound of turning pages, even the wild beasts of the mountain will gather one by one to complete the stillness of night.

The rustle of hair against a collar will echo like the final scream of the day.
And I will remember its quietness.

Just as life dwells within it, so do I.

On this evening, as black snow quietly gathers at my feet, I remember once more: what cannot be reached remains in high places, because it cannot be reached.