A Cold, Harsh Winter
The earth drifts a little further from the sun, and everything begins its quiet retreat. birds slip south in search of warmth. leaves stain themselves in gradients of red, orange, and gold, clinging for a moment before surrendering to the cold, worn ground. Insects disappear into small, hidden sanctuaries. Petals curl inward. Branches grow bare. The wind sharpens, turning almost to ice. And slowly, gently, life begins to find itself at its end.
The time has finally come.
The dragging of my feet sounds loud against the desolate earth. I look up at the gothic cathedral, adorned with such intricate detailing that I find it hard to believe humans once crafted something so beautiful. The stained glass appears morbid, shadowed by the overcast sky, dulling each pane with a macabre glow. Once, these windows glittered red and blue and pink, tinting the world with artistic flair. Now they sit dormant, lifeless in the oncoming winter.
I force my feet to move forward, past the church and into the looming crowd. Everything blurs into sound and motion as I remain trapped within the small bubble of my own reality. The world smells fresh—clean cut grass, moist with the guttation of early morning. There is an excitement in the air that I cannot replicate, a buzzing that moves from one person to another, skipping over me entirely, as if repelled by a foul smell. I watch this bolt of lightning zigzag its way through the assembly of runners. A golden hue seems to emanate from them, such a stark contrast to the bleak grey that cloaks me.
I have found it quite difficult, recently, to find happiness in anything. I force a smile, gesture through a story, push out laughter—and maybe, in that moment, I forget what is eating me from within. But it returns quickly, flooding back in without warning.
And it’s so hard to explain, but most days I don’t feel real. I move through life as if clouded by fog, just floating, because it feels like all I can do. Because if I don’t wake up and go to work, if I don’t go for a walk, if I don’t speak to my friends—then what is there left for me to do?
Everything upsets me, and I’ve come to a quiet conclusion: I am so tired of being upset. I am exhausted beyond belief, and some days it feels as though something unseen is draining every last piece of energy from me.
I read, and I feel a thread of happiness weave its way through my bones—right up until the very last moment, until the book snaps shut and everything comes crashing back down on top of me. I’m left, once again, face to face with the harsh reality of my unhappiness.
I stare into those bleating grey eyes, blinking ever so slowly. It watches me every second of every day, as if to remind me that it is there. That it has found its place beside me and has no desire to leave.
Maybe I do want to die, I think to myself. But I think I just don’t want to be me anymore.
I’m so tired.
I find myself exhausted by the knowledge of everything.
I cannot be bothered with any of it. I struggle to respond to texts. I struggle to feign enjoyment. I struggle to move through the day and pretend that everything is fine. Because it is not fine, and some days I don’t think people realise that. I once read, “You can’t tell what you can’t show,” and I think that thought broke something small inside me.
I find myself wanting to talk to someone—wishing for an ear to hear all the words I’ve kept caged deep within me, a feral animal confined behind steel bars. But they’ll ask me why.
Why are you sad?
Why? Why? Why?
And in those moments, I have to restrain myself from lashing out. Because what kind of question is that? Why, you ask? If I knew the reason for my sadness, I wouldn’t still be here in it.
On the walk back, I notice the trees already stripped bare, their branches reaching high into the sky like fingers grasping for a lifeline. They look brittle and lifeless beneath the clouded sky. And I can’t help but think that if there were an image of what I look like inside, this would be it. Not entirely gone, but just broken and emptied. Waiting. Suspended in a season that feels like it has no end, where everything once warm has receded, leaving only the outline of what once was.
A cold and harsh winter.
this is beautiful mia: I notice the trees already stripped bare, their branches reaching high into the sky like fingers grasping for a lifeline