The first snow fell differently this year

It doesn’t take a genius to realize that snow is about to fall. 

One morning, as I made the bitter trudge from the overflow lot to the front doors of the school, the air was noticeably dangerous. A rigorous force of freeze collided with my body—the substantial wall of windchill I walked into. 

I could feel the temperature diminish when the sky was flat gray: no cracks in the cover, no imperfections in its evenness, just unvaried clouds merging as one. After our chilly travel to the front doors and finally inside, first hour consumed all of me, and forgot about the events happening outside.

Walking the same path up to school, like I do every morning, has never felt more blistering than it did that morning. My flannel or sweatshirt for that day can suffice and endure the cold for three minutes, but winter was flowing through me—my cheeks, nose, and soul was frozen red.

Last year, around what feels to be around the same amount of time it is now, I was obsessed with Taylor Swift. The time of changing temperatures and snow made Swift seem more nostalgic and sentimental. 

I know there was a first snowfall, and why wouldn’t the delicate fluff from the sky be pretty, but this isn’t just a column about that or my love for Swift—actually, it’s merely the opposite. 

Like I had just fallen in love with her again, I listened to Red (Taylor’s Version) everywhere and all the time. 

I was purely in a Swift trance, but I don’t remember much else from last year other than me loathing my chemistry class. Despite it, listening to that album was the only thing I could do when the snow turned ugly only after a few weeks, and the winteriness had vanished from the climate for the time being.

Swift symbolizes my winter, or at least the start of it because we all know March’s winter is uglier than what we see in the fall.

Crystal white snowfall, the monotonous gray cast in the sky, and the world’s relentless revolt: it reminds me all of Swift and “Nothing New,” and the association was unabashed this year with her newest release on the horizon.

I’m lucky enough to have been able to line up a column due date around the time of the first snowfall because writing about it is one of my favorite topics, even though I would be happier if it never happened at all. The event itself is momentous and nostalgic, and the first sight of Christmas reminds me of the lasting effects of nostalgia—Taylor Swift.

I’ll always circumvent the topic when I’m feeling cold, festival, and in a Swift-y disposition. Writing about Swift and the snow are two topics I’ll always use covered in different drawn-out metaphors, and maybe, I’ll sprinkle in the most lavish of words, elegant and fancy, just to make the same point I make every year. 

I know it was the first snowfall, and why wouldn’t the delicate fluff from the sky be pretty or noteworthy—it surely doesn’t take much for somebody to realize—but this isn’t just a column about that or my love for Swift—actually, it’s merely the opposite. 

As much as I don’t want to say it, Midnights wasn’t enjoyable for me, and it makes me sad. The same kick that surrounds a new Swift album was so pungent this time, but I soon realized I love Swift for a different reason besides her music; the feeling I once lived for is dismal, now.

I don’t love her new concept in the album and my winter—almost lackluster—feels like there’s a hole in the new season, a different sense of winter spirit.

I love her for the nostalgia, the wintertime, and the superior discography; I hate not-liking Midnights and the blistering feeling of winter’s cold. All of this makes me miss the old Taylor, the old winter.

With all this, the air bites stronger now and the snow still glistens as it falls, but I miss the winters when listening to her music didn’t feel nostalgic, for once. I miss how perfect her old songs were to listen to during this time. I miss them so much.