Vivaldi's Winter

I've never seen flakes of snow tumbling down from a clear blue sky before. To me, winter is an abstract term. I saw snows on tv, I heard about snows from my friends, and I felt snows inside you. The very first time I saw you, you reminded me of Vivaldi. Violin pieces laced with staccatos and short notes, that's you. People might find it difficult to picture a person in a violin concerto. I used to think so, but not after I met you.


You are the winter of Vivaldi. Agitated, anxious, ambiguous. Unpredictable you are, I find it rather intriguing. I introduced myself to you. You didn't look surprised. I was the one who was chilled to my core. There is certain quality in you that I can never fully grasp. You speak with conviction and I'm awed.


I've never seen a real snow but I can still portray it in my mind. I draw it and it's you I'm thinking of. Or it's just your illusion I'm mulling of? It's a touch question to answer, even tougher to ask. I don't have the guts to question anything in you. You are the winter of Vivaldi's wildest imagination. No, I don't think so. Vivaldi didn't have you in his mind while he composed The Four Seasons. It doesn't make sense as well. Are you his prophecy?


I'm lost, in the confusing mayhem of my mind.


How will i define you? Allegro non molto, allegro or even resplendent largo? I refuse to define you. Define your beauty is tantamount to defile your body. The temptation is unbearable, the waiting is excruciating. Answer, is the final key to the Holy Grail. You have the answer, allegro non molto, allegro or largo?


When I tell you I want the answer, flicker of disappointment flashes in your pulchritudinous eyes. You tell me your voice is as weak as the winter's leaves. No rustle presents, you have become voiceless. How could it be? I inquire. You smile, a very faint grin, actually. And then you sigh.


When the snow thaws, I'm no longer myself. I've a new life, perhaps when that time comes, I'll have an eternal voice that reverberates in the history, for good.

Allegro non molto
To tremble from cold in the icy snow,
In the harsh breath of a horrid wind;
To run, stamping one's feet every moment,
Our teeth chattering in the extreme cold

Largo
Before the fire to pass peaceful,
Contented days while the rain outside pours down.

Allegro
We tread the icy path slowly and cautiously, for fear of tripping and falling.
Then turn abruptly, slip, crash on the ground and, rising, hasten on across the ice lest it cracks up.
We feel the chill north winds course through the home despite the locked and bolted doors...
this is winter, which nonetheless brings its own delights

It's that hard to become myself? Maybe it's all Vivaldi's fault. Winter is too short to be memorable, you complain. Then, I smile for the first time, because I finally realize something. I don't own anything, including my life. You belong to Vivaldi and I belong to the illusions I created.

Ces't La Vie, This is life.