There is something strange about the way we perceive ice, both in literary terms and in our physical lives. Cold, hard, lonely, jarring, sharp, almost cutting into the skin as it makes the air so cold it’s weaponized.
I like the ice. I like that it’s so cold and clear. It sparkles when the sun hits it just right. I know people hate the winter because of the cold and people much prefer the sun in the summer. But for myself, I find the sunshine in the winter much more loving. Kinder and warmer when you’re reminded to appreciate it. When you’re walking through Manhattan and you’re shaded by all the buildings, everything changes when you step into that little warm patch of sun.
Suddenly you’re a little warmer. Not so lonely or sharp. Defrosting in the subtle light surrounded by darkness.