Frost's Grasp

Dear, whomever this letter reaches,

In the desperation, last ditched notion of legacy, I wrote it. I want to remember, to hold onto the feeling of the quiet cold of the world awakening and the bite across my bare pale flesh as the sun shines, though its power is bereft and left us. I sit and ponder existence, purchase and agency as my skin becomes taut and blemished by the pierce of the frozen, meeting the warmth that still pumps through my body. The frost has taken its grip at Jack Frost’s behest. When you channel power toward a cause—one you have no reason to belong to—do you truly have agency? Especially when Jack’s bitter hand rests on your shoulder, promising a better future than the past you’ve endured.

Even with much thought and reasoning, the threat of embitterment still hangs heavy, does it not? Or does simply the heavy shadow of guilt tarnish any reasonable argument against a lack of willpower and diseased agency?

As the cold envelopes me like I am one of its own, I can't help but wonder if things may have been different before the pre-winter dusting landed across the dew-wet greens of the lawns, the devastated wasteland that was once a lush and dense parkland. Would things have been different if different choices had been made or if different paths had been taken? I think too of the phrase I heard recently, "There is no good, just bad and worse", and wonder if that applies. That’s too negative to dwell on. As pre-death rigor mortis sets in, brought by winter's promised hold, positive thinking feels far from apt.

Tears form in swollen, bloodshot eyes, warmer than cold. Ice clings to my lower eyelids, sweat from my walk crystallizing and solidifying before I can move. Is this my tomb? In the cold? Is this what I deserve for all the things I've done and all the things I never bothered to do? Self-inflicted, you’ll say, as you read these final words — as if I chose this, chose the cold, chose this end. Perhaps. But then, that is when the agency, purchase, and the whole problem of whether we really have free will and can really do things devoid of emotional and traumatic baggage. When does excuse end and reason begin? Do they ever? Looks like I will never find an answer as the frost wraps me up.

If you find this, know that I love my family and the friends who bothered to stick by me. I fear I will not make it past the frost's initial appearance. My body is already... giving way.

In the words of whoever said it best — there is no good, only bad and worse. Perhaps there’s only frost. The cold that will finally claim me.