As I walk into a wintry anticipated December, I’m leaving behind 336 days, 11 months and 44 weeks; of continual changes, of inclination and remedy; of spontaneity and wrench; of isolation, fatigue and purple rain. I’m leaving behind 2016. The worst year to have been recorded according to some critics. I nonchalantly agree.
There hasn’t been a single day where I wasn’t held captive of my thoughts. But, it has been never wonderful than ever to have marked the beginning of a new me at the doors of love. It is truly love that takes you to places you’ve never been to, evoking perpetual mental constitution. I can almost feel rainbows at the tip of my fingers. Colourful. I have the potential to manifest and explore anything that a boundless head could possibly bring forth through the heights of imaginative fantasy and desire.
I want to embrace all of the flaws that grew and shed throughout the torrid summer days.
Now, winter has come.
The child who sat idly at the bay must come back to his home.
I imagine myself as I lay here in the radial of my bed standing at the edge of a cliff in a snowy blizzard, the cold brittles past me and I stand with open arms to the night sky who whispers me of the moon’s flaws- the reason it is contrastive from other entities.
I stand unwavering, indiscreet, oblivious to the world.
‘Winter child behold the dawn of tomorrow, rebirth of your soul’