January came kicking down the door at 12.01 am on a winter morning. expecting his arrival for a month, I lie on my bed thinking of the calls ringing on my phone, missed. ignored. avoided. Like my dear January.
Only if I had listened to him a little more closely.
February was late on a warm afternoon. They stayed for a little while before floating away. With February, came my mother's birthday and we clapped and celebrated the first birthday of the year. Candles were blown, cake was cut and we sang happy birthday. But it was really Feb's departure that we were celebrating.
I miss you, Feb. I miss your calm, please come back.
I painted in my journal, wearing a hoodie, sitting at my table at 10 in the night when March knocked on the door. She came bearing flowers. They were all so different, so colourful, so pretty. I took them, pressed them between my old math textbooks and stuck them onto my journal. March reminded me of the things that still had colour in my life.
But it’s all gone. I only paint with grey now.
In a corner lie memories, drained of colour. April came with even prettier flowers, he even me bought some plants. He cleaned a little corner in my otherwise cluttered room, and put all those plants there. I watered them everyday and gave them names. I felt lively. But it was only a distraction from the, red, red colour draining from my own body. Why didn't he warn me? It was mid afternoon on a Sunday.
Did he not see it too? Or maybe the bleeding start when he released his clutches off me.
My room lit up the moment May came in. They dressed in pastel colours. I was wrapped in my bed sheets still when they kissed me on the lips. They tasted like strawberry ice cream melting on my tongue. As we lay on the grass, pricking our backs slightly, cool breeze dancing on our foreheads, May caressed my body and held me like I’ve never been held before. They kissed me again, slowly, when they left.
I was scrolling through my phone on a windy evening as the sun sank, when an unexpected visitor knocked on the door. It opened to June Before I could even say anything, she sprung at me, lifted me in her arms and spun me around. She was clearly thrilled to see me. I wish I could say the same about here blow out my birthday candles days before she left. She parted with gifts and love. She danced and I danced with her. But the moment she left, I felt sometime stir in me, almost as if she took a part of me with her.
She took a piece of my soul, in exchange for a kiss on my forehead.
July snuck in through the back door, said he wanted to surprise me. Shock overtook surprise when I saw the clear sky turn cloudy as the sun floated away into the oblivion. One of the plants that April gave me died and he saw me crying my tears into the pot. He held me close and promised me it was going to be okay.
I should have known better than to look for comfort in his lies.
August came with it’s ball and chain while I was still dancing in a meadow with June. She pulled me in, tied me down and walked away. What an oddity she was. Fear ran through my veins instead of blood. What difference did it make anyways? My face lost all colour and pain and suffering were only grey. Strange and breathless days filled her voids. She led me to do things I regretted in September.
I say she made me do things I regretted but really she just stood and watched me burn.
September arrived slowly. Like autumn, the leaves don't change overnight and neither does September. They knocked on the door on a rainy Wednesday morning and I was surprised to see them. "it's a little early" I said. Perhaps they weren't early, I was simply oblivious, even their expression said so. Thunder and lightning rumbled in the sky and in my heart. We drank coffee on the balcony with ten thousand things on our minds. But it was peaceful, nonetheless.
We knew end was near, might as well have accepted it.
October left a sour taste in my mouth. She came in when the sun was blazing, she was sweating and she left when it got cold, she left me, in the cold. She talked of the stars and clouds, when the sky was still clear. But she turned on me like the skies, sneaking out the back door. I can't say I miss her, at least not now. After all depression comes only after anger. I don't remember the day, I think it was at noon.
Autumn changes leaves, the weather and everyone around you.
It is November, the words have died in my throat and I have nothing to say.
It is November and I have nothing to say.
December is cold. Not like snow, but like a cup of tea that's been kept out for too long. Mundane, leaving a bad aftertaste, December was giving into chaos. It was a dull, grey afternoon, when I found myself sitting with December, soaking up the sun, like eating leftover pieces of an orange. December left with pomp and show, perhaps to make up for all the days spent in mere contemplation.
December seeped into my bones like cold does, but the cold stayed even when December left.
December left and it was January, all over again. I have grown older and my hands are little more nimble now. The pen I so dearly held, bled out in my hands before it could say everything.
Golden mist coats everything, and the sun begins to rise. Is it a new beginning or am I tugging on the silver thread tied around me, leading me to my eminent death, as I march on like a solider? Either way, I suppose I'll wait. For this catastrophe to seem beautiful again. For chaos to seem rational again. And if another year passes me by, I’ll be sure to tell you all about it.
