Sitting in front of a heater, cold coffee nearby, and watching the snowfall turn to rain.
Snow always makes me melancholy. The acute silence. The stillness that mirrors the dark corners of my subconscious and beckons for an awakening.
Every season that passes, and every summer that transforms to autumn, and then every winter that ultimately finds itself at my doorstep, I remember what my soul screams ever so gently into my ear every October, that I, down to my core, am a child of the summer.
Summer. The sun burns away any gritty residue of thoughts that linger towards dreary. My heart can breathe it’s deliberate breath, and not be troubled with dirty memories and complicated loves. It can focus on what’s in front of it. Summer is the soul’s blessing. It’s clean and calm and steadfast. It’s kind and doesn’t hurt.
Winter is a cruel love that reminds you what you lost and what you may lose.
The snow is now rain and the trees are no longer painted in white. It’s still cold and I can feel it encompassing me. Winter tells us to bundle up or leave. And since I’m not one to take orders from a bossy winter, I intend to bundle up. Feel the snow on my red cheeks. Embrace the silent and dark corners of my soul, and walk on, through the snow and the rain, and make my peace with the cold – and know, that there is a reason for winter and it’s bitterness.
Every season is a chance to be born anew. Every day, really.
What will I be tomorrow?