I look back at my life, which I once thought was a dance through blooming gardens, but in the depths of my heart I know it was a march through frosty fields. My incessant ambition, cold and calculating as a winter storm, painted pictures of victory celebrations where in truth silent battles raged.

From the distance of years, these supposed moments of joy now seem like illusions in a drama of survival, seductive mirages woven from the icy mist of my desires for a happier existence.

This realization of deception, that the warmth of joy was only a fleeting ray of sunshine in an otherwise freezing cold winter, envelops me. But I choose, in this conflict, to preserve the memory of the sun’s rays, even if they were illusions. I now teach myself to see the cold that was my companion as the necessary contrast that makes the rare moments of happiness seem all the sweeter. So I cling to the sweet lies of joy, the warm memories that help me endure the icy winds of reality. I recognize the illusion and embrace it anyway, because sometimes the dream of warmth is the only thing that carries us through the longest winter.