In Winter, I die
Lately, I’ve been rising from the bed, a heaviness having settled over me like a second skin. I navigate my days, as I have for countless before me. I'm drawn to routine, usually invigorated by its rhythm. Yet, this one weighs heavily upon me, an unshakable burden. It feels like confinement, an entrapment. Like I’m stuck. Like there’s no way out. But I laugh because of course there’s a way out. I just haven’t found the door yet.
//
Spring nudges its lovely head through the veil of clouds, offering promising glimpses of what's to come. I yearn for it. Ache for it. The warmth, the flowers, those days of lounging on sun-drenched grass, a book in one hand, a glass of wine in the other; my own personal utopia.
Winter is hard. It’s cold. I hate the cold. It’s wet. I hate the wet. I especially hate the snails and the slugs that litter the pathway every single morning.
As much as I love the days curled up inside with a captivating book or settling underneath a blanket to watch a movie, there’s something menacing about how the cold creeps into my bones, sapping vitality. Three months every year, like clockwork, my soul is blown away by the same howling winds that now rattle my windows. The relentless rain washes away my very essence, only to return with the first blooms of the following season.
No secret lies in my adoration for Spring. Everyone who knows me recognises the vibrancy that pours from me during September, October and November. Those months are my zenith. A mere quarter of the year that allows me to shine at my fullest. Which I’ve decided with enough thought - is kind of sad. There’s 9 other months watching me silently, 9 months waiting for me to figure out how to make the most of them like I do with the upcoming 3.
Autumn likely gazes with proud eyes, not as melancholic as Winter. It revels in my love for Orange and Green. The crunching of fallen leaves beneath my boots. The laughter as I join my children in jumping in the piles we’ve created before us. Summer's sentiment is probably more complex. I resent excessive heat, yet I seize as many sun-soaked days as possible. The beach is my sanctuary, my favourite place on this miraculous rock we live on — even if my pale skin thanks me for seeking refuge from the sun's glare.
I’ve always said I was a mermaid in another life. But the more I think about it, the more I start to believe that perhaps I was more of a siren, luring sailors to early fates; it would explain why swimming eludes me in this life.
//
In Spring, I Bloom.
In Summer, I Live.
In Autumn, I Fall.
In Winter, I Die.
//
Winter, holds no favour with me and likely never will (Sorry, Winter). Yet, perhaps, like everything in life, I can unearth hints of goodness, patches of hope. Maybe, instead of hibernating like a bear, I should do the opposite. Perhaps, I should rewrite the narrative. Maybe I don't loathe Winter as vehemently as I believe? Perhaps, I ought to let it exist in its essence, finding solace in the darkness to better embrace the light.
Because that’s the thing isn’t it? Appreciating something necessitates acknowledging its opposite. Understanding love requires knowing its absence. Success befriends failure. To savour every bite of happiness, one must intimately comprehend sadness, as it wraps around the heart and squeezes.
//
Months back, I sensed a rebirth on the horizon. Transformation beckoned. Change loomed. Though encased in a chrysalis for however long now, fractures now mar its exterior. I don’t know where I am in my story. Am I at the beginning? The middle? An ending seems unlikely. It doesn’t feel like the end.
I don’t know what lies ahead, the path remains hidden, but one certainty is known: instead of seeking a non-existent door I should have just broken the damn window.