Snow has befallen New York City. The jungle of sound and motion has ceased and white noise has taken over. New York City looks beautiful, wrapped in white; a lustful whore converted in to a pure virgin. I've come to realize something during these sporadic storms: control freaks hate the snow. Amidst the quiet, yet harsh, beauty lulls the moans of the complainers who are disgruntled by the force of nature. It's inconvenient, it puts a holds on their plans, it forces them to take off their loud clicking heels and stop for a moment or two and perhaps be introspective. I love the snow. I love everything about it; the way it looks (it's as though the universe is giving us a break from the mundane grit that we see everyday as it blankets us with a slate of clarity.) I love the way it feels; it amazes me that each snowflake is so miniscule yet so many are able to fall at once and create mounds and heaps. Snow is metaphorical and dreamy. I love that snow makes us stop, humbling the city by proving, in silence, that we're not in control all of the time.
