Winter swept through paths of asphalt and over rooftops, people, wood – sleeping only though a drug-induced rest; dreamless, empty, and merciful – ending the quivering pinpricks in fingers and toes, becoming nothing but blissfully unattached. It hasn't always been like this; no, not at all.
I was swallowed up in the bitter embrace of the season – caught in the lazy passing of time – oftentimes with nothing but the delightful pause between the inhale and exhale of a wintery breath to occupy my thoughts. Nights filled with memories of snow glittering in the lamplight, and naked trees that looked so frozen against the glow of the night.
Our whispers caught in the wind; and as I watched them being swept away, I imagined old spirits who would riffle through them, plucking out our hopes and dreams, to deliver them to a God who believed in us.
Remembering, remembering, a memory.
A warm blanket over heads, a fence that I loved, the absolutely aspen trees, pink blushes in the darkness, a world of water and awe, candy that is really plastic and false advertising, and a gluttonous fish.
I watched my fingernails grow – and once they were long enough, scratched out the eyes of those memories and politely asked them to go and hang their blind selves.
There is nothing left for me here in this town. It is time for me to move forward. This time, there is no running away, because there is nothing to run away from.
Nothing to run from but myself.
~C
