It seems to have been the coldest winter yet. Hands drawn to the fire, kept to themselves. It hasn’t been an easy year, has it? She had found herself questioning many things in her life. Why this? Why that? She had no answers. Life doesn’t come easy, does it? But perhaps life would be boring if it really did come with an instruction manual. Perhaps it would be pointless to try to make sense of life. Afterall, she’d just find herself in a quandary, a labyrinth of sorts. Who holds the key? She’s not sure anymore.
She only has herself to blame. Not just this time, but each and every time she fell down. She chose it. From the questions of self-worth and identity, she was the one who orchestrated the search, digging deeper, only to find hollowness and disappointment. Perhaps she hasn’t gone far enough. But a part of her wishes she could have saved all the hurts and pains and just lived a shallow life. Perhaps she would be happier then. Too late now. It only dawned on her recently that she had only actively tried to ‘find herself’ these few years. She’s always been a shadow. Voluntarily. She chose to hide in the light of those whom she admired, people whom she could look up to. But it was only natural that shadows get abandoned. No one really likes the dark. She wasn’t sure if she liked it herself.
It’s far too late for regrets since nothing can be changed anymore. At least, not those involving the past, and perhaps those involving the present. But she’s doing all she can now to stay afloat. Gripping on to that chance of salvation. Her hands are bleeding, dripping hot red flecks on the cold white frost. Winter was never her season. If only it would end soon. She had to wait. And it was, most likely, a really long one. Patience was never her virtue. She’s going to have to try hard on this one.
