It's snowing again. Pure white crystals drifted gently through the air, seemingly in no hurry to finish their journey from the clouds above to the street below. Each crystal it's own blip in time, passing through existence, not making any difference on it's own but collectively covering the world in beauty. It was a perfect existence - a tiny imperfection covered in beauty, destined to drift for half an hour, maybe to find a place on the ground to rest for the next 4 months. Picturesque scenes representing a quiet peacefulness could inspire so many to pause and enjoy the moment, take a deep breath of the sharp cold air, and release the stress of this day and life in a thick cloud of fog. A reminder that not all is wrong with this world.

A man, aged far beyond his actual late 20's, rested his head against his New York apartment window. He watched as the snow fell past his window. He watched, but didn't see. A faint glimmer in his eye showed that his mind was far, far away. Lost in thought. Not a contemplative or meditative thought, but a place of fear and sadness.

An ancient mantle-clock chirped the half-hour somewhere in the apartment, pulling the man back into this world. He let out a sigh and pulled back from the window. He hated the snow. To him, it wasn't beautiful. Even though it was, all he could see was the innocent snow falling to it's death in the busy city streets. Trodden under a thousand dirty boots, thrown to the side of the street to be hit with a spray of salt, doomed to an early death and a long journey through a disgusting drain, only to end up in one of the rivers. An early purpose and dream of cleaning the air, yet ending up as a part of the grimy world. Failed purpose. No legacy.

Shit. I'm projecting again. His therapist had alerted him to the fact that he often would project his own emotions onto those people or things surrounding him. It was a sort of coping mechanism that he used to deal with his thoughts. Somehow it was much easier to see the failure in someone else than to admit it in his own life. Even if that failure was that of a snowflake.

"It's called Freudian Projection." The man had been leaning back on the stereotypical psychologists chair as his doctor spoke. "Everybody does it to some extent, but I see a much higher level of definition in you. Now, this is usually prompted by some sort of traumatic experience or relationship. It's started as a defense mechanism to protect yourself from pain, but becomes like an addictive drug - requiring more and more of your mind's real-estate. Tell me," he had turned back towards the man and sat down in a leather recliner, intentionally crossing his right leg over his left knee. "Was there a time or event in your life that you could point to as the stressor for this habit of yours?"

The man turned away from the window. Away from the falling snow. A weariness controlled his body, not of fatigue after a long day of work, but a strain that has been felt for too long, stretching the mind's control until the tension is so great that another inch could cause a snap that sends everything flying. His eyes were tired, sunken too deep into his skull, held in place by the dark circles surrounding them.