Winter blues, bleed into Spring

I think about winter often. Funnily enough, I think about winter the most when I am not in it, when the sun sits high in the sky even after dinnertime, and when a sheen of sweat glows on my face the instant I step foot outside, even during the ripe hours of the morning. I dream about winter the most when I spend my lazy days lolling on the beach, overwrought with thoughts of snow and the crackle of the fireplace while cold, salty waves lick my toes, and I can feel the burn settling into the tips of my ears and into my shoulder blades. The ocean breezes brush through my knotted hair, and I close my eyes, envisioning that it’s my mother’s fingers detangling the strands as if I were a child again, and the briny scent that embalms my senses is not from the sea but rather the hot pot of chicken broth she is boiling on the stove. And for a brief moment, I am convinced that it is winter again.

Now, don’t be mistaken. My reveries of winter during spring and summer aren’t because I actually want it to be winter again, but rather at fault of my silly conscious, how it always seems to default to a nostalgic state of mind, an inescapable figment of my character that I have endured since I was a little girl. And it happens in the winter as well, where I yearn for spring and summer, and I can’t help but blame the human condition that always wants what has passed; we always desire what we don’t have at the moment. 

When I sprawl along the river in the early evenings, when the summer heat has softened to a low simmer, and I rake my fingers through the blades of grass, the coolness of it offering a slight reprieve to my bare shoulders, I can’t help but dream about curling up in my bed with a book, barely reading because the steady snowfall out my bedroom window is too beautiful of a distraction. I’m overcome with a longing for long coats and cosying up by the heat of the fireplace with my favorite person, and sometimes there is no better feeling than stepping into a balmy bar on a Saturday night, shaking off the snow from your jacket, and despite the chill in your limbs and the tip of your nose, you’re still looking forward to a crisp beer to warm you up from the wintry night.  

Some days, this nostalgia fills me with a mirthful ache, that even though I am still enjoying my summer days, I know that winter will come sooner than I can believe, and I will once again dream of my time in the sun. It’s like pressing on a bruise; it hurts at first, but it’s a reminder that you have lived and in due time, this wound will fade, and the minute pain you endure in the present will not be severe enough to be remembered in days time, but there is almost a certainty that it will come again. But there is something about the summer that makes me walk a tightrope, like I am never doing enough. As temperatures rise, so do my expectations having to enjoying every nice day outside, seeing my friend constantly, to always having fun. It’s a pressure that wistfully detracts from what I think summer could be for me. And thus, I dream of winter, when life seems to slow down, when slumber takes precedent, and no one is in a rush to do anything.

And though I may not have given this impression, I quite love my summers, despite the underlying tension that only I have created for myself. It does vex me that I can never seem to appreciate a moment for what it is, always looking behind me or straining my eyes to see what’s ahead, and all I get from it is lost time and a dull ache in my neck. You’d think that after twenty-something years that I would have figured it out by now, that I would have figured out how to detach the seasons and the months from each other, but I think it is a curse upon me, to live everyday with a nostalgic throbbing under my tongue, constantly reminded of the life I’ve lived and the people I knew, but do not anymore. Some days, I wish I could just switch it off. 

But I know it is all wishful thinking. And I know that I am not alone in suffering from sentimentality. Though some days it feels like a heavy, melancholic burden weighing on my chest until I can’t take a full breath anymore, most days I know that it is a gift in disguise. How lucky I am to feel things so deeply, to care and love others so passionately. It is a conscious act, I know, to switch between these two perspectives. Sometimes, I can not bring myself to change the lenses, but in the periods of my life where I refuse to succumb to a jaded worldview, I can not help but notice all the bright colors around me. I lay laughter over the dark parts and the dark thoughts, and the more I laugh, the more the hysteria abandons me, and with every exhale, I feel lighter. 

To be alive, what a wonderful thing! And not just as a carcass of a human being, but with the spark that emotions bring you. If we’re not supposed to dance, why all this music? If we’re not supposed to sing, why does this voice carry itself across the breeze? I want to experience the world in the same way that Spring arrives upon the cherry trees and the same way that winter brightens the stars in the sky. I love you summer, the same way I do winter, the same way I do fall, the same way with spring.