text: I love winter. I do social commentary occasionally, on a site built by my friends. Sometimes we go to protests, talk to activists and listen to speeches made. These speeches are usually reflective of a movement, as it appeals to a certain audience. Their speeches were not made to speak to those who are not listening, but to a specific selection of preferences and beliefs. It is not likely that I could understand these speeches completely, as my only purpose in this country is to study here. Yet it does not stop me from enjoying my stay. I enjoyed when the gust crushes my spine, when the coldness wets my socks. These rallies are hours long. Do their speeches mean anything to me? As you can see, the coldness distracts one from the speeches made. I adore bald trees and frosty mornings. I met her at one of these mornings, on a field trip held by a local left-wing group. The harshness of winter drives excitement into my otherwise uneventful life. &#x200B; “How’s your friends and family back home?” “My fiance is seeking asylum.” “Is he okay?” “...”, “I hope he will.” &#x200B; It was a numbing night. She reminds me that I could be very alive, she shares my appreciation of freezing winters. It was when we talked about the mystical, and were realised right in front of our eyes. Men are cursed by their own being, such as belief. In my opinion it is not truth that we care about, but of what we choose to believe. Worship becomes understandable when one looks at the sublime, stars and silent forests. They are infinitely far away. Yet it could be seen. If we can conceive the heavens, how could God not be real? Despite our own mortality, our imagination of the sublime provides agency. My love of winter came from my desire for agency. I wrote her a poem shortly after the trip. To be honest, it was a piece of shit. It was something about Greek mythology and Bruegel’s paintings. Speaking as the minotaur, as he looks onto Icarus’ fall, while he rots at his own labyrinth. I spoke as I watched her wings burn, but no one really cares about the minotaur, nor do the moth who flew into the fire. Another reason why I love winters is because I hate my sweat. Cold weathers are therefore perfect to eliminate these beads of embarrassment. I have a high metabolic rate, my discomfort shows through my sweat. Of all the signs that allow one to read me, my sweat tells the most obvious stories. My sweat melted away any sort of facade I had, melting into the sheets while my ego disappeared in her warmth. &#x200B; “Let me give you what you want.” “What do I want? Why are you asking that?” “Because I love you?” &#x200B; Her partner came to the country in September, not an event I am totally fond of. The winter grew harsher, I am not necessarily in love with the pain, but the thought that I might come out of this unscathed. Winter was not an exception for me to skip swimming back when I was in high school. The unheated pool water always pinched and gnawed at me until I was finally awake. &#x200B; “Are you leaving?” “Yes, I told you I have to leave by 10.” “Please don’t?” “You know I cannot stay.” &#x200B; I would always tell myself the water is lukewarm, and that I am comfortable suffering the unbearable cold. Swimming usually heats one up, as I was jumping up and down underneath her dormitory on one of the chillier nights. I called her to come down for a cigarette. &#x200B; “Do you want to grab a cig?” “Yes sure, let me ask him first.” &#x200B; This is probably the reason why I like winter, because I can tell myself that this cold might not be unbearable after all. I was telling myself the streets were not too cold, that my ultimate goal is to see her, the rest are irrelevant. Who she is with, who she wants to be with, nothing is important compared to seeing her. Despite my confidence in maintaining temperatures, my body never obliges. I would willfully heat up myself to bear this bleeding cold. My nose would irritate from temperature changes and sneezing would become a recurring theme for the day. I detest the bitterness of winter. There are unchangeable things. The pool water would always be at 12 degrees, the breeze would always sting my dried up skin, the nights would always dim at 5 pm. Despite how I tell myself how I enjoy winters, the coldness still remains and there is nothing I could do about it. She is always going to leave by 10, despite how much love she has for you. &#x200B; This is denial, my naive rejection of determinism. I remember being asked why I like to suffer, it is because of my sheer confidence that I believe that “I” will not suffer despite the circumstances.