Posted in Short Stories, Uncategorized

Letter to Friends upon the Closing of Winter

My dear friend,

The nights are once more giving up their ground to the sun’s bright fire, and my mind races to meet the new-comer with undue speed. Summer is still so far away, and it will last for many months; why do I run to greet it so?

There never seems to be enough time to do all that I wish to at the moment, the hours compress together and then fly past me all at once. Perhaps I wish to do too much, perhaps I wish to somehow ‘catch up’ after the restfulness of winter? Now all at once my mind races freely, but my body cannot follow it yet. I have gathered moss and lichens in the cool comfort of the darkness, and their soft stillness has not yet lost its draw. I do not feel the eager spark of Life, calling me into bud yet, but the sunlight tricks my mind into thinking it should blossom regardless.

There never is enough time, and I never know how best to use what I have. Every choice feels like a sacrifice of all the others, and the pain bleeds out over the chosen task, until it is stained. Why must I be one thing at a time, never a curious blend of everything? But Everything is never Something, I suppose, and I think… I think I should like to become Something, in the end.

Perhaps that is the Harvest which my mind pushes for me to flower towards? The becoming of Something, instead of the safety of Everything?

I sit, looking out at the sunlight, and I think about how we always welcome the new beginnings, but we mourn the loss of endings. Why must endings be sad? I should like to find someone else who delights most in the finishing of stories. The opening chapter is only a question, and my head aches from the wonderings it demands of me. The closing page is an answer, and I feel complete at last. Why must I be asked to mourn it, when all at once I am filled?

Perhaps I shall never be filled, never be compete.

There is always a new book, a new year, a new life waiting for me. A new friend to make, a new place to travel. It is a grand adventure to be sure, but I am very small, just now, and very tired, and perhaps, just for a little while, I should like to be filled, and content to be so.

Author:

Writer. Crafter. Nerd.

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