In a universe of never-ending change, why would it be selfish to wish that one insignificant person could change just like the seasons? Why would it be destructive to pray that a person could change to become one who added something or left an impact with their presence?

If life had to be as fleeting as the autumn leaves, why couldn't every person be as vibrant as those colors? Or bright like a summer day? Why must a person be stuck in that eternal winter? That ice stoned the body and attacked inwards. That led to gasped out-breaths as they sank underneath the ice, unseen by the world at large and left to the chilling thoughts of the mind embraced by the oppressive deep waters.

A person can't be trapped in a perpetual state. That is what led Pygmalion to beg the gods for a chance to bring Galatea to life. Pygmalion saved Galatea from that world, the world painted in a still monochrome passing by in blurs and brief moments of ecstasy only to be left to the piercing cold isolation.

No one missed the sculpture.

No one mourned the dead husk on the roadside, no one mourned the passing of a shooting star, no one mourned the brief life of a snowflake.

Humanity is a hypocrite.

Because if a person lied, cheated, and betrayed those they loved: they could stand to disappear.

If these hands only hurt, if this voice only sang bile songs no one listened to; if these eyes didn't see the brilliance of everyday living: what good could be gained with every extra second? What was the point of their existence? What was wrong if the night sky lost one star if there were thousands of more that could use that space to shine ever more slightly bright?

These same hands that had once held something precious. Hands of a friend in long-ago summer days the cicadas orchestrated. These hands that were once led by a calm and nurturing mother, these hands that danced ever so sweetly with everyone and no one.

Where tomorrow was another concern, and all that could ever mean anything was the laughter and joy shared by all those who could notice where they were.

Created memories with the people around them, regardless of how fleeting, these same hands did know warmth, and love, these same hands used to guard and protect the falling tears, gave embraces to those about to fall.

Maybe this person could create light if they only tried. If they noticed, they already had.

Perhaps the seasons did change but didn't erase the toiled and harsh canvas. A new stroke could be added, a new beginning on top of what might have left a sore note or turn a page on the current chapter. Perhaps there could be tomorrow; that the snowflake mattered.

That I can find happiness.

That I can love this world for all its pain and sorrows.

That I can love myself someday.