You will be still in these small seconds.
You will spend them with yourself. You will re-learn, as you do at each changing season, that this feeling of vivid clarity - the tick and buzz - when it comes back to you, is not always call for celebration, for you may be too fragile for it's vibration. You will re-learn, too, that well rounded cognisance is as fleeting as it is useless, for your plans are not only in your hands, now are they?
You will spend them with yourself. You will re-learn, as you do at each changing season, that this feeling of vivid clarity - the tick and buzz - when it comes back to you, is not always call for celebration, for you may be too fragile for it's vibration. You will re-learn, too, that well rounded cognisance is as fleeting as it is useless, for your plans are not only in your hands, now are they?
It is becoming colder, here.
The rain has set in, the house closed up, and bare feet are pushed under thick covers.
The Summer is fleeing, it has bags to pack, it is not looking back at me. My eyes, heavy and swollen, I am latched on with heavy fists, as though if I want it badly enough, I will find myself catapulting backward, eraser under palm, a chance to rub the mistakes out of my skin before the ink dries - before they are no longer choices, but history. But Summer does not see my plea.
Alas.
You will be still in these small seconds - either in a state of closure, or because any inch to the left may find you imploding.
You have jotted down each note from the weeks that were, and sealed them individually in thin white envelopes, arranged neatly and precisely on your letter holder.
In the moments to follow, this careful assembly will have been for something.
You will run your finger lightly across the first of your stories - Christmas, 2014. The last time you would see those members of your family, if you dare still refer to them as such. It is the first of many times to come, where you wished you had of known that it would be the last time, so as to soak it up as best you could - draw in enough to tide you over.
The second envelope will remind you of all the times you left hastily, closing the door on a broken man who was reaching out only for your empathy, and at best, your touch. You will wonder if you will ever regain the humanity you lost in watching someone you love cry so heavily, so many times, without ever offering comfort. And so you move quickly to the third -
The third, you will leave your finger tips pressed against for slightly too long. It has become romanticised, an improper account of what it was for you at the time. It contains each new kiss, in the dark, in the rain, in your underwear at 1am in the morning in the middle of a river. It recounts the endless chords and sideways glances and comfortable silence. You will remember that you smoked too many cigarettes but that you bonded over doing so. You will wish that you had spent that time lying in, for just a moment longer. You will not forget, but will indeed promptly birr past the countless times you thought 'I can do better, I have grown past this', because you know you need for this time to have been worth the pain it ended in - worth the pain you caused to find it.
Envelope four is short and bitter. A case of alcohol, a new stranger, and the sound of their engine in the early hours of the morning. And later, a phone call, intended to rid you of guilt before it settled in properly, more so than to give your honesty to him. Short words, uncertainty, and a chapter over before it had begun.
Five. The last weeks of summer spent dipping your toes in self pity, and gradually, as you warmed to it's chill, submerging further in. You will recount the dozens of texts, begging for forgiveness. The wasted attempt at a grand gesture, and the thought of the flowers you gave dying in unison with your communication breakdown. Sorrow growing alongside silence, alongside the stress and the realisation that now, you're out in the big wide world, alone.
In the moments to follow, this careful assembly will have been for something.
You will run your finger lightly across the first of your stories - Christmas, 2014. The last time you would see those members of your family, if you dare still refer to them as such. It is the first of many times to come, where you wished you had of known that it would be the last time, so as to soak it up as best you could - draw in enough to tide you over.
The second envelope will remind you of all the times you left hastily, closing the door on a broken man who was reaching out only for your empathy, and at best, your touch. You will wonder if you will ever regain the humanity you lost in watching someone you love cry so heavily, so many times, without ever offering comfort. And so you move quickly to the third -
The third, you will leave your finger tips pressed against for slightly too long. It has become romanticised, an improper account of what it was for you at the time. It contains each new kiss, in the dark, in the rain, in your underwear at 1am in the morning in the middle of a river. It recounts the endless chords and sideways glances and comfortable silence. You will remember that you smoked too many cigarettes but that you bonded over doing so. You will wish that you had spent that time lying in, for just a moment longer. You will not forget, but will indeed promptly birr past the countless times you thought 'I can do better, I have grown past this', because you know you need for this time to have been worth the pain it ended in - worth the pain you caused to find it.
Envelope four is short and bitter. A case of alcohol, a new stranger, and the sound of their engine in the early hours of the morning. And later, a phone call, intended to rid you of guilt before it settled in properly, more so than to give your honesty to him. Short words, uncertainty, and a chapter over before it had begun.
Five. The last weeks of summer spent dipping your toes in self pity, and gradually, as you warmed to it's chill, submerging further in. You will recount the dozens of texts, begging for forgiveness. The wasted attempt at a grand gesture, and the thought of the flowers you gave dying in unison with your communication breakdown. Sorrow growing alongside silence, alongside the stress and the realisation that now, you're out in the big wide world, alone.
If you can bear, you quietly move to six, looking away. Tracing it's edges, you reflect more softly upon it's contents. Rebuilding old relationships, and new ones, more carefully and gently than you would have in the past. Not ready for love but in great need of friends and comfort and reassurance. On these pages, a story of somehow, despite all, finding your way back home.
And now, jotting down the last letter, to be sealed and put away.
Home, but solitary. Loved, but withdrawn. Forgiven, but blase.
Uncomfortable with each and every choice that led you here.
Where do your morals lie? Who are you, really?
Selfish: certainly. Brash: most definitely. Caustic: a tad.
Fragmented and drifting? More than anything.
But here we are, in this slim corridor between changing seasons, sticking our heads above water for air - new air - new, but familiar. For we have been here, 19 times before, between Summer and Winter. We have lived it in 19 different ways. Summer has boarded it's train, and it has gone, and when it returns it will not be who it was when it left us last, and neither will we.
For now though, we must welcome Winter, for it brings new tales floating around your person, ready to become your story, your history.
You will be still in these small seconds - and you will bring out your ink and do your best to delicately scratch some lines together between the separated notes of Summer's stories - bring them together in that way, to form a foundation and start anew.
You will resolve to be gentle on yourself, to be better, to do better in the season to come.
And so when this Winter is packing it's bags, the stories it has left you with will be warm and intentional and ready to flourish in the Summer - you will not have to start again next time.
You will not have to seal up envelopes and tuck them away, but rather, you will have stories that continue to develop, and see you grow and mature and most importantly, see you love.
In any and every way that is necessary, you will learn to love - patiently, thoughtfully, for yourself and for others. The tick and buzz of vivid clarity and reflection will not break you, next time around.
Your stories will feel special - they will feel worthy of their permanency.
And now, jotting down the last letter, to be sealed and put away.
Home, but solitary. Loved, but withdrawn. Forgiven, but blase.
Uncomfortable with each and every choice that led you here.
Where do your morals lie? Who are you, really?
Selfish: certainly. Brash: most definitely. Caustic: a tad.
Fragmented and drifting? More than anything.
But here we are, in this slim corridor between changing seasons, sticking our heads above water for air - new air - new, but familiar. For we have been here, 19 times before, between Summer and Winter. We have lived it in 19 different ways. Summer has boarded it's train, and it has gone, and when it returns it will not be who it was when it left us last, and neither will we.
For now though, we must welcome Winter, for it brings new tales floating around your person, ready to become your story, your history.
You will be still in these small seconds - and you will bring out your ink and do your best to delicately scratch some lines together between the separated notes of Summer's stories - bring them together in that way, to form a foundation and start anew.
You will resolve to be gentle on yourself, to be better, to do better in the season to come.
And so when this Winter is packing it's bags, the stories it has left you with will be warm and intentional and ready to flourish in the Summer - you will not have to start again next time.
You will not have to seal up envelopes and tuck them away, but rather, you will have stories that continue to develop, and see you grow and mature and most importantly, see you love.
In any and every way that is necessary, you will learn to love - patiently, thoughtfully, for yourself and for others. The tick and buzz of vivid clarity and reflection will not break you, next time around.
Your stories will feel special - they will feel worthy of their permanency.
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