# 46 || Season Poem

dear ____,

Did you catch the moon this morning at the crack of dawn? Indian summers and Saturdays where you don’t even know where the weight of the week is resting. This last few days I learned that sometimes you can feel the most displaced when you’re standing completely still in the midst of everything and everyone who, once upon a time, were familiar but now are as alien as you, my indigo child. 

The double meaning behind the word ‘ spell ’ has never made more sense than it has right this very moment : sorcery vs. seasonal, it fits my whimsical temper to a tee. My moods, like the sea, it ebbs and flows - waves crashing against the shore in erratic extremes, one minute you’re only ankle deep in shallow waters, everything is simple and superficial. Then before you know it you’re in over your head, drowning in the deluge. Maybe there was a fairytale you somebody told you when you were a child, maybe nobody ever told me.

Right now, for the meantime, everything makes semi-sense. My thoughts are mostly coherent because for once I let myself speak without a filter, not because it mattered any less but because I was in a state more desperate than I ever remembered being in. But when you find yourself forever stumbling, what is the reason? Is it because the lesson will be everlasting the trillionth time my ego collides with the ground? I can recognise the mechanism but it’s still a mystery. Society says admittance is the first step but I’ve never known what is to follow.     

More often than not, the truth is inconvenient. But at what point does denial convert into an intentional metamorphosis? My dreams are becoming more vivid and charming, it’s almost a wish come true. Still, it is a threatening place to rest. For when that partition between fantasy and fact becomes a little murky, that’s when my memory is no longer reliable. What happened? What did I do? What did I say? Is any of it real or am I playing make-believe again? Can you be sincerely contrite for an action you can’t recall? The apology is real every single time, and the effort to change is genuine but despite every earnest intention, I can’t seem to make it stick. 

In the end perhaps I need to weigh up the infinities. One hand holds an everlasting memory - beautiful and bittersweet, of better times and fairytale nights. The other lays something transitory - it might break your heart, it might kill you, but that is the question : is it better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all? Sometimes an emotion swells until it becomes everything. And when that happens, all I can do is spend every other moment figuring out how to make it nothing again. Because when you strip me bare of everything I have and everybody I care about, what is left might be all that really mattered. If I did so, so many discords would disappear and I would be left stark naked with nothing but an enormity of love lying in between my cupped hands. 

This isn’t the answer, or even anywhere close. It’s a limbo I am living in right now, neither here nor there. Perhaps this 21st-Century emphasis on ‘ The Present ’ is a curse not a cure. For most days I feel so stuck in this very instant that I forget all about the positive pleasures of the past and the purity and promise of the future. When you’re lucky though, sometimes the instant is everything you’ve ever wanted and that’s when you close your eyes and breathe in deep : savour it, make the moment last as long as it will let itself. How lucky we are.