It was then you realised that hell was winter, and you
were in love with it
If you were to pick a season to represent hell, it wouldn't be winter. Summer perhaps, with its fiery days that never seem to end, but winter? Its heavenly backdrop of white would be enough to dissuade, but under the powder lies the hell of which you are so fond.
Winter carves a path for loneliness to enter the hearts of many, for the freedom of dark nights to inspire isolation.
Winter shows itself as a time for yourself, time spent by a fire, curled up and warm. Times for yourself, however, end only in desolation, and where will that land you, my dear?
Hell is winter, and you love it only because the feeling is there. Is it not better to feel the solitude, feel the hellish, oxymoronic cold, than to feel nothing at all, no singularity of the season, no defining moments, nothing to remind you that you do, indeed, feel.
If hell were winter, then that was fine, because summer was heaven, and there's only six months in between.
* * *
The most random thing in the world, but I didn't want to be doing cutesy things the entire way through December, so have a slightly philosophical prompt that I obviously can't write for.
It was nice seeing the responses to the Empathy Talk, methinks I will be doing another of those sometime soon. I also, surprisingly enough have a poem of sorts in the works, which is partway done, so that should be up soon.
I now have 1 1/2 days until the end of school for Christmas, and on Friday I'm going out with my friends after school, so I'm just excited, full stop.
See you at the weekend, people!
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