It’s winter again.
He left and here I am, stuck with too much time to think. I’m settling in, getting used to a life I once loved. Months have gone by, things changed, people left. I don’t recognise it anymore. I’m staring at its skeletal remains, taunting me. You should have treasured it while it lasted. And I want to scream – but I did, I loved every damn second of it. I adored it all – the blooms in spring, the warmth of summer – even the bittersweet golden decay of autumn.
Maybe I loved it too much. It doesn’t matter. No one’s there to hear my desperate plea.
Our ghosts linger in the places where we used to talk, laugh, exist. Phantoms from another time, frozen in their little bubble. Happy. I see them whenever I pass. My words keep them alive. Crazy how much can change within a couple of months. Crazy to watch the brightest fire die.
A pang of nostalgia hits me. I’m in love with these memories, keep living in this messed up autumn that was so beautiful in its decay. I live in denial. Maybe it’s time to bury the memories, for I’m here and wished I was somewhere else. Anywhere. And this is not how I want to feel.
I’m seeking refuge in the wrong things, again, always repeating the same mistakes. I want to lose myself in places. And people, I’m always depending on people, one replacing the other. But they can’t help me, attention won’t fix this, not in the long run. Some things can’t be fixed, only endured.
I should know better. But it’s dark and cold and I feel lost and don’t know what to do. Why do I need this crazy intensity in order to feel alive? As if peaceful days with little joys weren’t enough. I’m always asking for more, addicted to ups and downs and messiness and chaos. Preferring the sun scorching my skin rather than filling my lungs with cold air.
But it can’t be summer all year. Things die. Life takes a break. It’s winter in my heart and I’m slowly starting to understand that it doesn’t need to be fixed. Not all that’s broken needs mending. Yes, it’s desolate and cold and I’m missing the colourful warmth. But there’s snow and tea and a good book to read under my warm blanket, too.
And eventually, when the time is right, things will change again. Every winter is succeeded by spring.