grossly sincere

Unfortunately, I can’t help but think of you when a gentle breeze caresses my skin, or when warm stretches of sunlight dance upon my face. I actually think of you when I smell the sweet scent of rain. You remind me much too much of summer’s freedom and play, and spring’s arrival only teases me with a small taste of you.

Last spring was full of anticipation. As the grass grew green and the flowers blossomed above my head and below my feet, so did my life transition from familiarity into unknown territory. I confuse the birth of every April for the April from long ago, expecting an uncanny month to unfold before me. I am haunted by its creeping warmth and sticky air.

I like to think that winter is the hardest season, but hardship can be found year-round. It’s just the whole waking up in a sunlit room each day and being greeted by lovely dewdrops slipping down licks of grass outside that make the warmer months feel more tolerable.

I’m dwelling too much on the past now, but how can I stop myself from clinging to it when there’s an established pattern? What do I do with my expectations, my memories?

Well..  you make new ones. So that’s what I’ll try to do. There is a fixed number of seasons I will experience, so I cannot afford to have each of them look and feel the exact same. I will make things happen. I cannot keep finding comfort in nostalgia, in things that have already happened, in things that are over and will not happen again.