Cold

A wandering wind gifted from the rain beyond dances a drifting waltz in through my bedroom window. It settles down upon my neck, the back of my shoulders. And today, I’m feeling cold. 

Today, I’m feeling sad.

There are many reasons for this, though it is difficult to see any of them really mattering. All that seems relevant, that matters, is the accompanying mess of emotions that swirl and stir, like wind disturbing long-settled leaves.

And it is disturbing. 

It is unsettling, to be sad. 

At the same time, there is something reassuring about sadness, something wholly human to it, isn’t there? Something sort of beautiful, but wretchedly so. Something that strikes us, something that reminds us it isn’t all happiness, isn’t just the romanticized life we dreamt of—that contrivance; but instead it is pain, it is sorrow, it is staring at your reflection in the mirror and realizing you feel nothing, and yet everything. You blink—and it blinks. You pull a grin up from that deep down bottom place and so too does the puppet before you. And for a moment, in that moment, you feel—you really do.

Opposite to Pinocchio, this month I’ve tried my best not to. I’ve rejected emotions. I’ve hidden from them. I’ve distanced myself so that all I feel in the morning when I wake is this cold sensation of drifting breeze through my open window; and in that moment, I am only cold, for in that moment, I can trick myself into believing that’s the only reason why.

But it has nothing to do with the open window, nor the weather outside, nor anything beyond.

Instead, it is within.

I am sad: that’s all there is to it.

And I’m relearning, slowly, that it’s okay to be so.

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