The Third Time I Saw A Chair in the Snow

So riveting the first two experiences had been that by my third sighting of a chair in the snow I had already become desensitized. All innocence, all ignorance, was lost. I could see the nasty sight now in 3-D. With red and blue 3-D eyeglasses embedded in my pupils, I could now see that the chairs were not individual organisms plopped into the open wilderness as I had originally thought, but pasteurized plastic products produced in excess, wasting away as they were originally intended too. Like clockwork, they would be placed here and there, prodded there and here, sat on here, sat on there, stored here and finally ditched in the woods out there.

They would move.

Not by themselves, but by others. The snow was nearly a product of negligence, and not a beginning in itself. The sight was still cold and desolate, but there was reason and there was cause.

That night, the snow stopped. The heaps of snow weighing down upon the chairs froze and gave the flailing limbs of the chairs a cake like appearance. There was happiness in the white hue. The moon shone onto the snow, reflecting the anxiety and madness ingrained in the molecules of oppressed plastic in a thousand directions. One ray burst through a crevice in the shutters of my room. It was a blue laser that held more than light.

I could not sleep.

The Second Time I Saw A Chair in the Snow

This one was artificially green, and poked through the snow like a tree. There were no leaves though. A voice in the side of my head said, “It ain’t a tree if it ain’t got leaves,” and all I could do was nod my head in agreement. The plastic was old, and erosion had etched a swath of marks along its limbs. I could only feel sadness for this chair. I thought to myself of the abuse and neglect – how nobody had put the chair into a storage shed before the snow had fallen! It was simply disgraceful.

I stared out of the Ski Lodge with an angry temperament. I looked down at my hand, and noticed that it was curled together into a tight fist. Was I that mad? What could have incited such passionate feelings by simply witnessing a chair being snowed upon? I turned away, unable to bear the cruelty occurring outside. I stared at the great fireplace, and watched as the log burned and burned. Ashes fell and flames crackled. Logs in Fire did not elicit such emotions as the wretchedness of a chair in snow.

I began to shake, rapidly shake, convulsing as if I were having a seizure. I steadied myself by grabbing onto a chair, but I still shook with vigor. I closed my eyes and attempted to breath deep breaths, but all I could see in my eyelids were markups of white specks falling onto chair shapes on the floor of my eyelids. This was it, nothing could hold me back.

“The Chairs!” I yelled, “The Chairs!” People stared at me. My mom, deeply concerned, walked over to me and hugged me, asking me if I was alright.

“The Chairs!” I continued. “They are tormented! They are abused!”

And that was it. I blinked, and before I knew it, I was covered in snow.

The First Time I Saw A Chair In the Snow

It was cold and desolate. The snowflakes made the plastic shiver. I felt as if I were one of the chairs – the tinge of frost bearing down upon me, covering me up, and weighing me down.

I was only five years old when I first stared out of the Ski Lodge in Wyoming and saw the violence and passion of the frozen H2O molecules interacting with the plasticity of the chairs. I could see their inner souls slow down to a freezing halt. Who were these chairs, and why did they deserve the weight of the snow? I could only guess at the time. But I imagined myself as the chair, bent up, and strewn across the ground. My four chair limbs frozen in solid positions, defenseless to the bullets that the clouds had thrown on me.

I survived that first episode, but ever since, I have been shaken up by the brazen nature of those white flurry’s.