The Small Things
rating: +42+x

You know, in life, we always forget to notice the small things. The way the flowers bloom in spring, and the movements it takes to get there, to the crisp air that swirls throughout the summer, to the delicate leaves of fall.

But then comes winter.

The sweet snow that fluffs up beneath your feet, the cool breeze throughout the air. Winter is regarded as a season of perfection to many, whilst to others it is despised.

The mahogany walls around me are shaped in a way which resembles a log cabin, which clashes the snow in a magnificent way. The few carpets strewn around are very shaggy, with little clumps of dirt deep within. The couches are a deep navy blue, with the familiar smell of old age reeking from their depths. The fire cackles gently, in a way which doesn't disturb the peace surrounding me. The komono scattered about the room gave it a feel which couldn't be matched, despite my mother telling me to pick it up. The room was perfect.

But I already knew that.

As I slowly begin to curl up in my blanket, watching the snow fall in beautiful clumps outside, I begin to see the many things which make up that snow. The beauty within the snow falls deep, and I being to see more and mor-


Naturally, I'm needed for something. Just one more mome-


Alas, no moment given.


Dropping the blanket, I begin to walk towards my coat, which is laying upon the couch. Within its pockets lies my wallet, my gloves, my beanie, and some pocket lint. Everything organized in one place. After all, who would I be if I didn't have my things. I need these.

Who would I be…

As I begin to make my way towards the front door in order to go to the kaleidoscope array of winter, I begin to slowly pull up my gloves, and throw my coat over my back. My beanie goes atop my head, planted in a way which will assuredly make it fall later, but it'll do the job for now. The pocket lint remains, as it helps break up the feeling of comfort within the pocket, and adds that tiny bit of surrealism to everything. Yet another thing which is perfect.

It must be perfect.

I open the door, to see my father holding a single shovel. He hands it off to me, and then repeats a single phrase back to me.

"Shovel the snow away."

To usurp the delicacy of the snow is a treacherous thing, but on such a willing accord? Regardless, the word was final. I cannot decline the authority backing the order I was given.


My father turns away, and begins to lurk his way back up into the house. As he takes every individual step, the snow flutters beneath his feet, crushing up into a compact mess of a delicate blanket. As he steps onto the porch, he stomps his boots until they are devoid of any snow, with only a few flakes laying astray. He takes one look back before he enters the house, then proceeds to walk inside once more.

The delicate blanket laying beneath me has a feeling beneath it which needs to be developed, so I tumble down and flop into the snow. As I begin to lay within its cold, piercing depths, a certain calm comes upon me. The feeling of the icy needles coming in and stabbing any skin which it can manage to pierce comforts me in a strange way. The feeling of the gentle snow slowly enveloping me, it is something which cannot be passed up. As I slowly begin to sink more and more into the snow, the feeling of sleep nearly overcomes me.

But it can't.

I must finish the task I was given. I must finish making this area devoid of any particles of snow, no matter what it takes. I pick up the shovel laying near me, and begin to haul myself up. As I begin to stand up, something catches the corner of my eyes.

The house in the distance…

is upside-down?

I blink and it returns to normal. As expected, it may have been vertigo. Maybe it was something more. Regardless, it is gone, and all is at pace once more.

The snow flops and turns as I shovel it away. All that matters is that I push it towards the road. That way, it can become someone else's problem later on. It's what we are, as humans. We are all made to be selfish beings. It's who we are.

Inevitably, my job comes to an end. The snow has been moved to a new location, within the depths of an endless vortex of someone else's responsibility. It's a strange thing, the way we simply move our problems to a new place. Maybe that's why we are selfish so quickly. We simply have to be, lest we lost ourselves within our own lives.

That doesn't even make sense.

As I begin to walk back inside, a single snowflake catches my eyes. It's shaped in such a strange way. It's warped to the point where I can make out shapes deep within. Is that… Pipes? No, it can't be. Simply the imagination within. I turn away from the snowflake, and hear it fall gently into the pile. Another one to join the pile which cannot be comprehended.

I walk into the home, and enter the kitchen. Something warm is all that is needed. Coffee isn't a good choice; the caffeine within causes you to perk up, and the spikes in the stomach it makes are not desired. A nice mug of hot cocoa is what I crave. I pull out a mug of mine own, which has a single heart haphazardly plucked on, so it states "I love you" from within. The heart naturally replaces the word love, because isn't that how it normally works.

The cabinet holds the drys, alongside the wets. For this purpose, I pull out the last packet of hot cocoa, alongside the marshmallows. The single teapot is sitting on the counter, so I pull it off its self-made pedestal in order to heat the milk. That's when I realize I have yet to grab the milk for my cup of hot cocoa. As I walk towards the fridge, something grasps my eyes.

However, hasn't that happened enough times today?

I elect to ignore this strange thing, and instead grab the milk as normal. I hear my father nearby, making remarks about whatever he is reading. It's such a drag, listening to him ramble on about such mundane topics as weather. As I grab the milk, I hear a cat within the distance. Another stray. I would take them in, but my father is deathly allergic, so that could never happen. The single cat runs away, alone and cold, never to be loved. Unless it one day finds a home.

What are the odds of finding love in a world where you are hated?

As I begin to heat the milk, I stare at the marshmallows for a single moment. How… out of place they seem. The whipped topping within the fridge sounds much better right now. In the end, the whipped topping seems like a much better choice for me. After all, isn't it much better in flavor, and does it not melt into the cocoa itself? I put away the single bag of marshmallows, and grab the whipped topping from the fridge. The milk is heated enough, so I turn the heat off gently. I add in the cocoa powder, and begin to stir it together in order to make a perfect mix. From there, I pour it into its ceramic container, surrounded only by love.

From there, I go back to watching the outside window. It's beautiful out there. The snow continues falling.

That was until I noticed one small detail.

The snow was purple.

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