Spring announces its impending arrival, sends reminders in the form of afternoon sunlight and snow drops in tree pits, ignoring your pleas for another hundred years of darkness, your incredulity about ever feeling hope again. Spring does not care. Spring is the honey badger of the eons.
You try to shield yourself against the light, against the way your lungs are lighter, try to protect yourself against the devastation that may follow in the wake of hope. I am not strong enough to survive the downfall. In the dark cave, at least I know I can endure.
Spring isn't satisfied with simply enduring.
The years pass by us unannounced, unyielding. They don't allow for negotiations, for breaks to think about if this is how you'd like the time to go. It is the only certainty, and it offers no consolation.
Staring at the sun never felt so much
like succumbing to a black hole.
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