When spring finally comes around up here I try to change like the trees do. I know I can never truly break from the melancholy of where I find myself, but there is a familiar ritual that makes it a little more bearable. On the cool evenings of warmer days I lay out on the grass and look up at the sky. A part of me wishes that the ground beneath me would swallow me whole, or that I would somehow fall upwards off of the Earth. The unfortunate reality is that I am here regardless.
So I stare up at the sky and embrace the silence and detachment from everything in my life. In this state it is just me and the deep wound that I nurse each and every day. It talks to me, whispering bittersweet words through the birds and the wing rustling in the trees. But that is the only thing it can do to me here in the grass; it can’t weigh me down with the realities of my life. Here I am not buried by my scars, I am equal to them. I can face those words, even if I know they will beat me anyway.
Until eventually the ground beneath me grows tired, cold, and weak, unable to able to carry this weight with me. So I inevitably move on from it, beaten and broken, to live life as I always do. Day by day, word by word, and inch by inch.