crumpled like paper
Winter is a severe season for me. It is as harsh and unforgiving of weakness as it is starkly beautiful. I am blessed with a room and window facing the fullness of what sun there is during the day, and that makes all the difference. But, still, I feel the heaviness of the seasonal depression that sets in with the shortened days and sharp coldness. My instinct is to hide where it is warm and dark, and pass away the winter curled in a ball.
I’ve been fighting off some heavy memories, too, of previous winters, a previous life. Winter holds such powers of introspection and reflection; it’s hard not to give in completely. I can feel the familiar acidic bile rising inside me in remembering his face.
When does it stop? I have a better life now, or I’m fighting for one. I wish I could slice away the memories, amputate them like a diseased limb. Is it better to resolve what has happened within oneself, and accept these memories as a part of my mental footprint now, or to try to wipe the slate clean and start anew?
Either way, I have work to do.