We are warriors in ourselves. And such a fight only falls into your hands ever so often that we may just miss the chance for greatness.

We stand, prepared and at attention. Readying ourselves. Being told by our generals how the enemy is able to surprise us at any moment. And as we get older, we can feel their presence nearer. Their thirst for control closer.

And out of fear, we disregard what our general has taught us as we run into the cold, dark, blind world of it.

Snowstorm.

We had prepared. We had trained. And we forgot our basic lessons in hopes of being accepted into the storm. That terrible, dark storm.

Before you know it, the troops are running. Running towards the enemy. And as they reach to touch it, they are swept into its whirling winds.

Until a single troop stands. The muted colors of their suits still a drop of paint against the flat, blank canvas. Like sunrise. Like birds eyes.

Just one bouquet of freesias.

They fight that snowstorm, promising to remember another on their way to the fight.

And they fight. They fight like love is being risked and as if hell itself were grasping onto their souls. They struggled, twisted, turned, but they fought with each other. For each other.

The world always says ‘The calm before the storm’, but they never say what happens after. After the darkness and confusion of the storm, is a rainbow. Full of light, color, and a faint hue of hope.

They fought not because they wanted to experience the rush of winter. It was because they wanted to last.

To last until spring.

Learn more about the author:

Emilia Brewer