In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer. (Alfred Camus)
We missed the Geminids again this year, back in December when the moon was new and the chill had already begun seeping through the floorboards. Still, we’ve never been so far North where it snows in April, admist bolts of lightening and fleeting rain. I have been reading a lot lately to pass the time, falling in and out of insomnia, phasing into hazy dreams that leave me more exhausted than before. At times it seems as if winter would never end, that spring has forsaken us to rot in this desolate wasteland, and I am wasting along with it, collapsing into myself, scattering into stardust.
March is the end of an era, yet in many ways it might just be the beginning. Not that there is anything wrong with a little metaphorical death, but we have conquered too many mountains and come too far for giving up to even be an option. Everything has changed, nothing has changed. Come morning, despite the laws of physics and the steady decay of radioactive elements, my bones are still my bones (and your heart, still your heart). If there is any true logic in this universe, we’ll find ourselves on that bridge again someday, watching the streetlights blink in and out of focus, waiting for the dizzying rush of blood as the world tilts and rotates. I see the stars my dear, and they are calling me home.