Dear, woeful words,
I have grown rather tired of you, I’m afraid.
I don’t mean to be rude; I promise it’s nothing personal. It’s just that I have this tendency to let my festering disinterest overcome me (especially during the dull, dreary days of winter), and you seem to have finally outgrown my focus.
Don’t get me wrong, I did love you for at least a little while. It’s quite possible that I still very much do, and I’m sure to fall for you again next winter. But for the time being, you do nothing for me aside from entrapping me in your own doleful doldrums.
I once found a quiet sort of solitude in your gloomy embrace; for a time, you understood me in a way I thought impossible before we were acquainted.
They say misery loves company, and it must be true because I truly did love you.
But my misery lacked motivation and in January’s godless grief, your mournful melancholy revealed its true malevolence.
As disappointing as it is for the desperate, aching section of my soul that will never truly relinquish you, you have become boring. Your devastatingly delicate diction has been squandered, slowly combining into one simple synonym: sad.
And I’m oh-so tired of being sad. It’s a word so often overlooked and underused. Too small at first glance to properly portray the boundless sea of sentiment it swallows.
I have been sad for so very long now. I have let my sadness slowly suck the color from my life until I was left as nothing but an empty shell. Nothing more than a human body, greying at the early age of 15, on the inside if not the out.
I am tired of being sad, and I am tired of relying on you to keep me that way.
I have a hot pink T-shirt floating, slowly sinking, near the bottom left corner of my broken dresser drawer, and I think I’ll put it on again.
Soft snowflakes are waltzing lazily beneath suburban streetlights, swaying in time with the distant jazz drifting down from some neighbor’s open upstairs window.
The miniature, feathery stars lay as one, soothing the burning earth, their quiet laughter as they greet each other on the soil dissolves the last of your dreadful hold on me.
And, oh, it’s all so very beautiful. Not just my forever familiar neighborhood street or the sweet whispering of the long-awaited snowfall, but all of it.
All of it.
Everything.
It’s all so deliciously, delightfully—distractingly—glorious, and I am amazed at my past obliviousness.
There are so many small wonders in the world, from the uneven, leaping curve of my pinky nail, to the immense sweetness of the chocolate placed on my desk by my sister in a rare moment of solidarity.
I must have cherished these things at some point in my past, so why on earth did I ever stop adoring them?
How could I have possibly forgotten the magnificence of existence?
How could I have possibly let you make me forget?
If I’m being honest, of course, I still love you. If I’m being honest, of course, I always will. But I am done with your delirious dreadfulness that drags days into decades. I’ll love you forever, but I get the feeling that you’d love the tragedy of it even more if I gave up on you now.
I’ll come back to you someday, in some future dark December, but until then I am going to live as joyfully and marvelously as I possibly can.
Gorgeous love, always,
A girl in a hot pink T-shirt
