|Photo Credit: Flickr: Johnny Grim|
Morning brings pain and purpose.
Joy floods into me through the cracks left by grief, like light through broken glass. Springtime feels full of promise, winter full of loss. They are taking turns, one day and then the next, crocuses and sunlight then sleet and chill winds.
March can't make up its mind and neither can I. I am halfway into the future already, setting foot onto fields of bright flowers, full of the flawlessness of imaginary things. I am halfway in the past, watching the world I loved, frozen over, black and misshapen with cold, and desperately hoping a thaw will come to return it to its former glory.
Each sharp edge of pain gleams with the brilliance of being alive. The world can't make up its mind what to take from me, and I can't decide whether to give it gasps of bliss or ragged sobs.
Caught on the whipping breath of the wind, they both sound like music.