The light that comes with the first fall of snow is almost dazzling. With the onset of it, the world is built on contradictions. The contours are softer as if painted by someone tender, but an inescapable feeling of coldness accompanies you even when you’re inside. You can hide behind the walls, but your hands remain cold and the steaming tea caressing your face will lose its heat within the blink of an eye.
The consciousness of the passage of time feels like a headache you used to have as a child freshly awakened, told it was time to go. The brightness of the dark outside confuses your senses. It’s a light of forced insomnia, the entrapment in reality. Let me just lay down, you think. Close my eyes for a brief second.
Life then fades away like a shadow at dawn. It’s the winter of the body, it’s the winter of the soul. It’s the dying arcade, the end of the year. It’s the end of the prayer.
Being told her imaginative brain would get her in trouble, Zuzanna started writing to help preserve the sanity of her closest friends and family at age 10. She grew up in a boring city in the center of Poland, so she was forced to add colors and shapes to the place she came from by locking her experiences in stories. When she got praised by a professor who didn’t really like her (and the feeling was mutual) for a poem she wrote for his class, she realized her ideas could shift the dynamics between people. Later, when she began studying International Relations, she noticed that in her scientific papers, she would always smuggle bits of empathy, the findings of her meticulous observations of people around her. She wishes to write a more interesting bio for herself one day, one that gives titles to her feelings and stories she experienced in her life. For now, she works with people, enjoys walks with her dog, and scribbles in her notebooks each time she has a mundane revelation.