It was one of those days, the day that I met you, that a coat of ice changes the face of everything. It was one of those days when your breath materializes in front of your eyes and your nose drips relentlessly, as if from fear that any water left in you will freeze, surely with unthinkable consequences. It was one of these days when it's so cold outside, that you can actually feel your sweat freezing on your skin, tiny home made ice-cubes. It was finally one of those days that had you been a bear, you would have decided that hibernation had been long overdue. On one of those days we decided to meet for the first time.

It might be that I thought that the cold would numb my fears and inhibitions. Or simply it was because of the primal instinct of survival, against the cold, against the world.

On such a day I waited for you on the platform of the train station and while I waited, like so many years ago, I pretended that my frozen breath was smoke coming out of my lungs, like an almost metaphysical sign of adulthood. And in my mind I rehearsed our meeting, like a director overseeing his masterpiece. What would you say, what would I respond. What would be the proper joke to break the ice. Maybe a conversation about the weather would be an appropriate topic.

And then you got off the train and started to my direction. You hadn't seen me yet. You had a red nose. The nose you get when changing temperatures so violently. You weren't sure if it was me. I smiled at you and indeed you smiled back. The ice was melting...

When we walked through the frozen scenery of the city you told me you hated cold. You were meant to live in warm climates you said. I made a joke, something about moving to Africa. Not a very successful joke in retrospective. To my defense the neurons don't work as well in below zero temperatures. We walked a bit more, I enthralled by the beauty of the icy landscape, you trying to keep the last bits of warmth in your body. 

The time passed, perhaps a bit slower, iced, heavy with the weight of frozen hopes. I opened my home for you, kind of like a peacock showing off its feathery tail. And what feathers...warm colors, warm enough to melt the ice further. And for a short while we rested there, rejoicing in the warmth. It was a personal victory against nature's icy touch.

But it came the time for you to leave. Once more to face the cold outside. And you told me you had had a good time. And it was as if the ice was never there. And when you left, I had a smile on my face, and it seemed as if the cold was less. As if some of the warmth had rubbed off on to me, and on to you. The ice had melted. And the ice was a memory quickly forgotten. There was just the white and a smile. Nothing more.



A thick sheet of ice. Between you and me. There are cracks. So many tiny cracks in the ice. How can I break through. I examine the cracks one by one. I follow them with my eyes. I touch them with my mind. One of them will be the one. And all the while, I can hear your heartbeat. It is so clear. Crisp clear. I can feel my heart beat. As if trying to beat out of my chest. I come closer to the ice. I let my breath brush on it. Some droplets of icy water form. They seem to be coming out of the cracks. They remind me of tears. There are times that I think that I've found the one crack I was looking for. The crack that connects my side to yours. I try to touch the ice. Hoping somehow that it will cave in. Once I've found its weakness it will cave in. But the ice does not.

And then I close my eyes. I imagine that I am strong. My hands are rocks. I am hitting the ice with all my strength. The cracks become deeper. I look at my hands. They are rocks. They are red. It is my blood. It is leaking into the cracks. I am one with the ice. I melt it from within. And then you are in my arms. Nothing is between us.

And then I close my eyes. I imagine that I am handsome. I am naked. I am shinning. My hands are rays. My legs are rays. My chest has burst open with light. The ice is engulfed in the light. The ice is engulfed in my light. And the ice breaks in thousands tiny pieces. The pieces scratch me. They scratch my face, my naked skin. I am left scarred, maimed in front of you. And then I am in your arms. Nothing is between us.

And then I open my eyes. The thick sheet of ice is still there. Between you and me. There are cracks. So many tiny cracks in the ice. How can I break through. And I examine the cracks one by one...again. And the ice is still there. And you are looking at me with icy cold eyes. It is funny how your eyes seem to melt the ice. I can not see you. I can not see you behind the ice. Just your eyes. But they are iced. Your eyes are frozen. You can not see me. There is just the ice. Nothing more.



Sometimes, when he goes to sleep, he feels like he has been granted a very special bed. It feels like he is lying on a bed of longing, he rests his head on a pillow of clouds, and he covers himself with a blanket of ice. That is how he feels. No matter how much he turns on the heating, his bed is always cold. But he doesn't complain. He secretly cherishes these moments of ice cold. He feels like he is putting himself on freeze. Somehow that is easier.

Emotions tend to melt the ice. Quite troublesome if you ask him. Being cold is much easier. Admittedly after some while you don't feel much, but that is good. Is it not? He has built his fortress of ice quite carefully. You can not tell immediately, but there is a film of ice covering him. Of course you will not see this with your naked eyes. But you just need to touch him once and you will understand. You will feel that chill running down your spine.

And as he covers himself with that blanket of ice, and as he rests his head on that pillow of clouds, he forgets the longing that has built his bed. He tries so hard to forget. He clutches his blanket of ice as hard as he can, tight around his naked body, until he can feel his skin burning. He then sinks his head in the clouds and lets the icy droplets of water hit his face, numb his features. It is easier to hide his tears like that. And there, covered in ice, engulfed in clouds, he goes to sleep in the hope that ice will have penetrated his dreams. 

But there are these rare times, when the sun in his dreams shines brighter and hotter, that no blanket of ice can stand its warmth, and no clouds can cast their shadow against its light. And then, for a very brief moment, he casts his skin of ice away and lets himself bath in the light and warmth. And then, as they had never left, the emotions arise powerful and unforgiving. Images of happiness, of fulfillment, of love surround him. He tries to remember that this is a dream. In his sleep he covers himself tight in his blanket of ice, in the hope that the dreams dissolve.

And there are these rare times, when he can not remember that this is a dream. These are the times that hurt the most. Because then the sun shines through everything, melting the ice in his veins, defrosting his heart, awakening hope. But then the dream ends and he wakes up. And this is not his bed anymore. The blanket of ice feels really cold. The pillow of clouds looks very gray. And the longing, oh the longing, engulfs him. And at these times he decides to shed his blanket of ice away, and flip his pillow of clouds around. And then he is left there, lying on a bed of longing. Alone. Hoping for that dream to come again. But it doesn't. And the blanket has melted. And the pillow has dissolved. There is just the longing. Nothing more.