I have never experienced winter, but I do know cold. Sometimes I wake up at 2am, my heart shivering— alone in my rib cage.
There is nothing I can do but bury myself under layers of bed sheets and hope it would still the dry pleas. Other people would say it comes with the season air but I know they’re just trying to convince themselves. Have you ever squeezed your eyes shut hoping for tears but nothing came but burning like salt only it’s frozen tears?
I have known summers but only fleetingly, just like how the occasional breeze blowing my hair will never return to do so again.
When their hands brushed against mine it was scalding hot but not because of the blood rushing through our veins chased around by life. Have you ever held a hand so cold against the cold of your own that they seemed to burn together, hoping to never let go? But of course, eventually life moves on— carrying you in different currents that could meet again one day but not in another hundred years.
Spring sneaks upon me sometimes when I smell something different in the air.
Most people call it nostalgia, a memory, a past— but sometimes I wonder maybe we only think that to deny that we hope for a future of the kind. Sometimes I believe it’s hope— like sunrise in olfactory form. Sometimes I find spring in old photographs where people old and young truly smile, smudging the lines that separate time.
I don’t mind, in fact I am thankful because without these occasional change in the atmosphere, I’m mostly stuck in autumn— weakly holding on, afraid that even with will to stay together the wind will separate us all.
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vox populi
General FictionHerein lies voices of random people. Sometimes, their screams. A collection of prose.
