Hopeful Winter
I'm glad November is ending. I hate November. It's the cruelest month, not April. I don't know why I hate November. I guess it's like my fear of twilight. The moment it gets dark, I'm at ease. Before that, I love to sit in the sun, even if it's bloody burning. In the night, the world moves on, the lights are on, the laughter returns, the TV blares silly soaps. But twilight, God no. If you're travelling on a bus and you have to wait for night, there is an unbearable heaviness in the air, a suffocation, the calmness that's killing. Twilight reminds me of waiting for death. Death is moving on, death is darkness. But the moments before it are cosmically stretched, just like twilight. Call it limbo, call it empty space... November reminds me of twilight. And boy, am I glad it's getting over.
That means December, the month of movement, of parties, of warm lazy mornings, of Christmas, of my birthday, of the leap into the new.
A friend predicted my winter will be lovely. So far it hasn't. I'm still in the twilight of my November. And it keeps pulling me back into the past. I'm hoping December will be fresh, exciting, unpredictable...and I want to dance and sing, and I want to be red coated passion (also wear my red overcoat, beautiful thing but no chance yet to flaunt it)....I want chocolate covered hearts sprinkled with sugar, I want buzzing drums and slow soft notes, I want to swirl in new arms, I want to be taken by surprise.
And when March comes I want to look back and sigh...and be hopeful about summer flowers and hot nights.
I'm glad November is ending. I hate November. It's the cruelest month, not April. I don't know why I hate November. I guess it's like my fear of twilight. The moment it gets dark, I'm at ease. Before that, I love to sit in the sun, even if it's bloody burning. In the night, the world moves on, the lights are on, the laughter returns, the TV blares silly soaps. But twilight, God no. If you're travelling on a bus and you have to wait for night, there is an unbearable heaviness in the air, a suffocation, the calmness that's killing. Twilight reminds me of waiting for death. Death is moving on, death is darkness. But the moments before it are cosmically stretched, just like twilight. Call it limbo, call it empty space... November reminds me of twilight. And boy, am I glad it's getting over.
That means December, the month of movement, of parties, of warm lazy mornings, of Christmas, of my birthday, of the leap into the new.
A friend predicted my winter will be lovely. So far it hasn't. I'm still in the twilight of my November. And it keeps pulling me back into the past. I'm hoping December will be fresh, exciting, unpredictable...and I want to dance and sing, and I want to be red coated passion (also wear my red overcoat, beautiful thing but no chance yet to flaunt it)....I want chocolate covered hearts sprinkled with sugar, I want buzzing drums and slow soft notes, I want to swirl in new arms, I want to be taken by surprise.
And when March comes I want to look back and sigh...and be hopeful about summer flowers and hot nights.
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