And so it came that winter came, knocking upon my frozen windowsill, waking up my mourning heart, summer's outside though it's winter by the season, but winter is inside of me. The media's raging and the snow shall never be a guest in this town, so I gather all my dreams and fading memories and making a promise that I will try the best in me to create a world of an ink, black letters on white papers, surround myself with books, old and new and courage all that's left in me to fly away to a different world, a world I will create.
It is not always possible to create but who am I to say I can't if I have already done this before. There in my cold empty room I light what's left of my cadels and write, I just write. December of the sea shore isn't the same December of Cold Mountain. Up there in Cold Mountain we freezed and we shook but there were also many good things to remember. There, in Cold Mountain the memories of my early twenties started, the memories that minggled with dreams and dreaming was all that's left to do. So I dreamt big and after those dreams where over and morning came there was a great hole of empty years and mournful memories.
Where are they now? what's been their end and continuation of story? the fate of those I loved once and cherished, those I had spent the best times and years and those who left and with their memory faded, dried up the white, yellow, pink and red roses I got from 'once there' admirers. I had decorated my walls with those roses, I had covered my red-pearled curtains with fake fabric lillies and bought new shits for my King sized bed. In colder days and brighter days the streets were my own. There once I had trode with small leather vintage purse smiled at the strangers, ignoring assulters. Finding the best Cafes and reading my books. Finding old and new churches, making new friends. When rain fell I was happy (as I usually am when it rains), when summer came I hid again in old Cafes and book stores from the burning sun. My book shelf filled until there was no more place for a new book, but still, I bought more and more books to my unending collection. At the beginning of my stay in Cold Mountain it felt as if it is a Honey Moon. Finally I was free. I got my old camera on weekends and travelled around the mountain and collected the best shootings that later decorated international magazines. I felt I owned the streets, the mountain was my own. Little did I know that every new thing will grow old. Like love, for love grows old and waxes cold and fades away like morning dew.
And so my love for Cold Mountain, had slowly faded. I left and I returned and left again, and every December I remembered that town on a mountain. The streets which I loved, the people I have met, the streets I trode and the messages I've learned. The saddest goodbyes and the joys of those I had cheriched. All those who have long gone and left Cold Mountain, I know though they're far away that they cherish it too. I remember them, I hope they will remember me. And so I had collected our letters and memories and slowly it's all coming back to me, and with my old memories and reality my dreams and letters of black ink on white paper came to life again, as if I ressurect once again from the dead, return from a desert, awake from a 100 years of sleep, the queen of cold mountain and the queen of winter. And so my love begin. I am awaken.
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