The whisper in the wind

The physical world is a lonely park, frozen cold by its own cynicism; covered completely in white snow and ice - a sight that is both hauntingly beautiful and depressingly lonely.

A group of singers, each holding their instrument, a harmonica, an accordion, a flute, stand frozen in place, eyes closed as if meditating, caught in some heart-felt tune.

An old lady sits at the corner of a park bench, her collar pulled up and her gloved hands wrapped around her person as if only asleep. A leash barely visible in one arm extends to a small dog seated obediently, looking up at its master. It too frozen in place.

A coachman sits in his seat caught in a middle of a yawn; eyes closed, mouth shaped in a O, his coach parked on the small road to the left, his 2 horses with their blinders; they appear blank, without feeling - the obedient servants to the old coachman.Snow matters his scraggy beard and heavy coat, even the wisp of grey in his farrowed brow matches his speckled garment.

The girl and her mother can be seen some way - the latter leads with the former, a child no more than 6 stopped in a skip, her buckled shoe and coat bright red, the only sign of colour in an otherwise perfectly white world - but she too is as still as the rest - and why not, for she is as dead everyone here.

Nothing stirs, not a sound can be heard in this winter wonderland.

Nothing lives.

The soul world is in the wind, a biting cold gust blowing through, animating the trees, the shifting snow, even the brief flutter of fibres in coats, from the corner of your eye would appear as life; and the whisting wind playing tricks with your mind. If you wandered that park long enough, you would hear the voice of the mother firmly hurrying the child along, a giggle, a single note from the harmonica, the accordion or the flute... The spirit world, a whisper in the wind, an illusion of life - a sense of something more.

But the truth, the beauty is in the stone cold winter wonderland of the real, and you ARE all alone. The soul of the wind may add personality, a sense of something you can touch, feel, breath - but there IS nothing more in the wind... No spirit, no mystique, no beyond

There never was.