In the depth of winter I finally learned…

“Yet much as it is winter now, it is spring, too, in many ways…my soul bears patterns of flowers pressed in between the creamy pages of well-read books.”

9jedit6
Art by: 9jedit

The light summer breezes that ran swiftly down my forearms are turning cold, now. The chill nipping at ears and fingers and noses. Night comes earlier now, too. Overstays its welcome well into the early morning, and is too lazy to leave right away when asked to.

In the depth of winter I finally learned…

By the bus shelter on the other side of the street, tiny leaves, all yellow and orange, flutter about in the air, landing in curls of wild hair left loose for the wind to play with, insinuating themselves in hoodies and in between layers of clothing, trying to find home somewhere else, trying to draw out life as long as they can. There is a girl standing there, or so I imagine, right by the sign that reads ‘bustop’, leaning dangerously close to the curb, as though buses could be hailed. Wrapped in voluminous coats and scarves that brush the tip of a reddened nose, she shuffles around impatiently. Soft clouds of frozen breaths come in short bursts, hanging over her head like speech bubbles the world would never know how to fill. There she is, a young, frantic soul trying to escape an inexorable winter. But it won’t let up—slowly, it settles in, eating the mountains, the plains, the heart of the city bit-by-bit, like an infection, almost.

(Maybe I was that girl a few years ago)

Yet much as it is winter now, it is spring, too, in many ways. It is spring in the way that I feel. As though my soul bears patterns of flowers pressed in between the creamy pages of well-read books. It is spring in the way that smiles will sneakily stretch onto my face without prior consent. It is spring in the way in which I have never known spring—it has always been summer or winter, there have never been in-betweens— but know that this, this has to be spring, so inexplicable it is if it is not that. It is spring, even in the cooling depths of winter, because it could not be anything else.

…that there lay within me an invincible summer.


“In the depth of winter, I finally learned that there lay within me an invincible summer.”

 — Albert Camus