Xmas; Beautiful Tragedy.

As the frost-laden winds gust through the hollow chambers of time, this winter feels more frigid than the last—not merely from the wisping chill that spirals around me or the merciless flurries that blanket my weary form, but from the harrowing knowledge that I am trapped in a loop, ascending the same insurmountable mountain, yet it looms larger, deeper than my own despondent heart can bear. A ludicrous vision dances in the fog of my mind, as it has countless times before; I imagine that upon reaching the apex, I shall find serenity awaiting me, a love so warm it eclipses the relentless chill—a beacon of sunlight poised to unthaw the very marrow of my existence, to cast away the winter that has seeped into my bones. Yet, just as swiftly, I tumble back down, my frail body surrendering to the treacherous path, echoing the plaintive refrain: "When shall I glimpse my own sun, when shall this unyielding cold relent?" The thud resounds in the silence of my own glass sanctuary, my dome—a paradoxical haven that bears witness to my solitude. I gaze upward at the seemingly infinite trail I must traverse once more, resigned to the cyclical torment of my journey. Each rise is followed by another inevitable descent into this fragile chamber where hope flickers like a dying ember, determined yet fraught with the bleakness that my sunshine has forsaken me, and this perennial chill, with its icy grip, shall remain unyielding until the final exhale of my weary soul.