Snow in March

After a night of fevered anxiety, a torrential soul ripping experience resulting in my dissolution, I awoke to see a gentle March snowfall beginning its blanketing work on the freshly power-washed cement outside my window. I beheld the snow-sprites dance up and down, tumbling head over heals to their repose on the cold hard ground which they longed to make their last bed. I watched as they swirled; I could not tell whether they were moving up or down, it seemed that my music was pushing them every which way, in a confused free-fall. I could not figure out whether I wanted to go up or down. To decend into enigmatic understanding or otherwise to loft my soul upwards to indeterminate spires of knowledge. What goes up must come down, but what goes down must also go up. There seems to be some sort of balancing peace which will not allow for one direction to be followed for too long. In order to save ourselves we must go in circles, but it isn't as boring as running around a lonely sport's-field. It's like the swirling of snow, come unexpected on a late March day, we hover in the air for only a short time and then meet our fate on god's freshly cleaned cobble-stones. I will never understand other peoples' lack of connection with the physical world. Why do we lose our child-like capacity to lose ourselves in a mythology of reality that we are creating with every thought on every step w take? Why do we lose our comfortablility with intimacy? Why do we forget that we too are mythical creatures, wandering down (and up) the strange roads and paths of some long forgotten fairy-tale? How can people miss the snow-sprite for the snow?