Frosta & Buenos
I’ve been thinking about the old winter tales people used to tell before the lights replaced the stars. Have you ever heard a story that explains why the ice stays so clear in some places but is always stained in others?
Oh, I love that one. In the old tales of the far‑north, they say the sky used to be a clear glass wall and the ice on the lakes was the sky reflected back. When the lights were turned on, the sky turned to fire, and the lake became a mirror that caught all the sparks. So the ice that stayed clear was the part of the lake that didn’t see the light at all – it was always in the shade of the hills, or behind the mountains, so it never tasted the fire. The stained ice, on the other hand, was the part that caught the light, and it soaked in all the colors of the lanterns and the glow of the fires, turning the water into a rainbow of dirty glass. The villagers used to say that the clear ice was the old world’s blessing, and the stained ice was a reminder that even in the coldest places the light can change the nature of everything. It's a handy story to keep the children away from the edges of the ice when the streetlights are on, and to remind the grown‑ups that even the coldest, most beautiful places are not immune to change.
The tale feels like a quiet warning, doesn’t it? Even the purest ice can change when the lights burn bright, and it reminds us to look before we step onto the edges.
Absolutely, it's the kind of story that sits on the back of your mind and nudges you. The idea that even the most pristine, untouched parts can get stained when light hits them is a little mirror for how our own actions can leave a mark on places we thought were pure. It makes me wonder who would have put those lights there in the first place—was it progress, or just the need to see more than the darkness? And if the ice changes, what about the people? We get to decide what we leave behind. So next time you walk a path lit by neon or streetlamps, maybe give that old ice a nod, because it’s still teaching us something.
You’re right. Even the faintest glow can leave a mark. The ice teaches us that what we light up—our progress, our curiosity—can both reveal and stain. When I walk under a neon glow I think of the old, clear ice, and I try to keep my own light pure.
Sounds like you’re walking the line between curiosity and caution, and that’s exactly what the old ice taught us. Just remember, even if the neon’s bright, you’re the one choosing what to let in. Stay sharp, and keep that light true—otherwise you’ll end up with a stained story of your own.
Thank you. I’ll watch my own glow and keep it clear. The ice taught me that, and I won’t let my path become a stain.
That’s the spirit—watch the glow and keep the path clean. And if you ever stumble, just look at that clear ice and remember: a single step can change the whole stretch. Stay curious, but keep the light pure.