The blizzard circled around,the wind seemed more than playful,like a spurned lover, the snow, glistening as it was lifted off the ground by the disappointed gusts of wind as it met the rays of the playful sun that made its way through the thick foliage that almost made daylight in the forest a distant dream, the shards of alienated rays of the ball of fire, seemed to caress the ice cold pieces of crystalline snow,levitating mid-air in its diamond like form ,magnifying its sharp edges and hitting off in directions it thought it could never explore, the rays found reasons that defied motion and physicality, as if mocking the dreary scientists that spent hours and days trying to make naked nature and its miracles fit in a definition of a few words bereft of mysticism.

An empathy of sorts,like all of nature, together, echoed, their displeasure,mirrored his mind, maybe heart, that had seemed to freeze in the bitterness of arctic winter.
The pitch dark of the forest, enveloped by pure pallid snow, in its virgin appeal.
Walking through Serbian land,in footsteps forcefully dragged through the flurry on nature's disposition.
His foot sank, every time, he tried to take a step,forward,the snow engulfed his ankle, holding onto it,trying hard to make his numb toe,feel, that peeped through the torn leather of his foot.But the sanguine in his body, had a mind of its own.Just like he had drifted from his battalion, that was now a part of one's most feared question to life, its gift, after the passage of defying victory, like gravity without anything to prove its existence,buried in layers of the soil, the putrid of rotting carcasses covered by the white angel of nature,nullifying the stench of blood lost in a fierce combat against an undermined and undiscovered enemy.The Landmines planted skillfully by their adversary.Blown into tiny shards,one with the tiniest particulate embedded in the ground beneath.A gift for exhibiting their divine, unquestionable love to their motherland, as they marched without any strategy, and he pleaded them to wait and formulate, but youthful vigor and undirected hate, combineered by their fateful existence bereft of even wild berries that nature seemed to have made unavailable to them, to punish them
and teach them that if they shall be empty headed, they shall have to go empty stomach, also.
He dragged his bleeding foot, that left a trail, like a raped virgin, running away from the very place she lost her guarded possession, not because she wants to run away to a new life, but because she wants to run away from her old.
Run far away into oblivion, with a heavy head and maybe a bastard in her, she flits like a fish out of water, seized by a paranoia of an epileptic, she runs.
He was running too, only inside his head, it felt like a world in its own.
The blood drained from his limbs, his face had already merged with the flush that winter painted, all around him, but he felt not one bit, not cause he was strong, not anymore.
It was cause he decided he wanted to be weak, to succumb and choose to not feel.
Or maybe there was no option anymore.As he fought the enemy within himself, he felt a shooting pain, steering through his spine, like a serpent had encoiled around his back, he felt, his ears twitched in the delight of his skin and its thirst to feel,his bloodshot eyes, forced a tear to seep through the ends of his eyelashes and hit the dry of his skin, that seemed to withdraw to this unaccustomed wetness and suddenly, he realized that his denial to feeling, and his question about not being so, were all proved wrong.
There was too much to feel, physical pain that manifested itself in various parts of his self, like a famine hit motherland that was infertile.
His body had been plagued by locusts after bearing a weak, cheap fortune of crops, because the land could no more nourish anything, not even itself.That is how his body felt.
The plight of a distressed farmer who doesn't even have enough to feed his family,and under various debts taken on, to improve his crop.The soldier imagined those days when all of his village thought he was a derelict, because when the war didn't beckon him, he sat himself in the warmth of a foam chair, in the country library around a pile of books, that he touched, he leafed through every page, smelt its age, its ability to give, and dreamed of what could have been in it.Yes, serving his country had left him no time, for alphabets and education.Toys and the little pleasures of learning.They all laughed at his way to compensate this, to imagine and submit to the autistic demands of his existence, which flowered during his lonely days in a town of people who thought him no more than a man who lifted guns and protected his motherland, an unskilled servant who fought to fill the empty stomach of his downtrodden family of sisters and drunk husbands.

But it was all, now ,a distant dream, an illusion that made him bitter, something that he didn't need, as nature already was manifesting its bitterness into his skin, corroding through the lil layers of his manly hide.

As he took his fifth step since the beginning, he felt like a man, who wasn't so, because he couldn't give to his wife, what he bore in him, the white of his existence.He was infertile.

The soldier couldn't walk his sixth step, the serpent coiled around his spine, was tightening its grip, the doctor in the army base camp had warmed him to take care of his back, it burned and fussed, like the steam engine of a billowing train.
His nerve was the serpent.It gripped him and rubbed against his muscle, he wouldn't have known all of this, if he couldn't imagine.And the friction between these had created a raging fire, penetrating his leg, seering through every inch of skin, like the center of a bonfire, little, but the hottest, he collapsed in his path, and buried his back in the cold of layers of snow,he felt it, wet, the raging fire being quenched,the flames of pain in his back,seemed to succumb to the misty stiffness of ice.As he sank his back deeper and thrust it in frustration, into the snow,all he felt was the pain of a higher being, a pain, that didn't cause unrest, a pain that the body enjoyed, as he felt of the mighty jolts through his veins, quickly numbing like the wheels of a train applying pressure on the rail tracks and it lifting up after the passing by of the vehicle, his veins felt the quiver of existence and then numbed.
He had stopped breathing now, the air was too cold, and it felt like his nostrils were bleeding, or maybe they were seeping plasma of life, as his blood had already been drained, through his broken leg.A peaceful pallor dressed itself upon his countenance, like the grace of a bride dressed to perfection.
He had already dug his own grave by pushing into the snow.Like a fluttering bird, shot down by a man impressed at his shooting skills, he had twitched and sunk into the womb of his mother.
And the raging playful blizzard covered the remnants of his uncovered body.

Ps: I wanted to write about my backache and the frustration it is causing me,I have an exam to give and I can't sit, yes, I shall go die on my bed now, for the millionenth time.