I get sick on spring.
I can't handle the sensation of my dry face,
The rhinitis, the cough, my cold extremities.
I get fragile on spring,
I dramatize everything;
The loud voices, the reactions, the kept words, the said ones, the laughs, the pouts, the smiles.
I hate spring,
Just like i hate the middles,
Between every two little things,
Between two sides,
Between a friend you like and a friend that likes you,
Between the place you've been and where you're heading,
Being unable to move forward neither to come back,
Stuck like you got no mind.
I hate spring
Just like i hate the undecidedness,
The fear,
The imprecision,
The preservation,
The hiding,
The withdrawal,
Like if you're not concerned.
I hate spring
Just like i hate the silence when something should have been said,
Just like i hate not taking a part,
Or doing something to show you care.
I hate spring just like i hate not being sad or euphoric,
Or just being indifferent to a thought.
I can't understand the intermediates,
The middles, the transient temper of spring, its pretentiousness,
Between two other radical seasons, two origins.
YOU ARE READING
Surviving
PoetryShe wanted to survive so she created art. It's not a roman but kind of a short essay. It's about silence and noise, about introverts being forced to extroversion, about the little secret of an introvert. It's simply about a life among billions. All...
