melancholy is heavenly

It's around that time of the year. The sun fades quicker, the outside is gloomier and the air of dawn is foggy and breathy. I love the aura of fall and winter- although, I do live in a tropical country, where the only seasons you get to witness in all their glory are summer and monsoon. There are no rust leaves falling down like pieces into place, there are no grandly parched trees, there aren't fog framed words from lips. They simply exist in the visuals of my head's make-believe love letters and of course, the American media I so often consume. I used to get so excited about Christmas so I'd put up my tree every third of November because my jittery hands just couldn't stand the wait. Innocence. My religion doesn't celebrate Christmas, but my parents were gracious enough to let me put up a tiny desk tree and decorate my room with fairy lights. I'd pick my present and ask them to "surprise" me on Christmas morning.

The winter used to feel magical, now, it just feels lonely. I'm usually always missing someone or missing something. I carry around grief like I carry change. I bring it with me everywhere. This might seem like a strange thing to say- but somewhere along the years of growing older, I began romanticising my sadness. Sorrow felt familiar, it felt comfortable. It was a reminder of all the good things I had, and lost. Stepping into the awareness that everything physical is transient is cathartic. The slow instrumentals, crystal snow globes, the somber poetry, palms around warm coffee mugs, the echoes of endings, hugs that last moments longer than you thought they would and the discomfort of loss- magnificent, making me wish I could paint my feelings. So in a way, I still retain my magic, except I've learnt to look for it in what I've always perceived as my reality. After all, grief is all I've known, grief is my only home, forevermore.

love,

A