Waiting for Spring - Part I

Prolouge

A woman, my worst enemy and my closest friend, stared at me and said "heartless is just another word for those who once cared too much". Was she right?

Underneath a cynic there's an idealist, broken and scarred, tired and lost, defeated. There is bravery and willpower turned to ash, a fighting cause without a warrior, another empty, torn banner fluttering to nothing but the silence of cold bitter winds.

And life is a story, a book full of torn pages, margin scribbles, and stains of wine, chapters and arcs. We are born a prologue. When death comes for us we leave an epilogue, an epitaph, a legend of memories. Some books are short, a mere unfinished poem a verse too short. Some books are a codex, filled to the brim with legend, tragedy, and comedy.

If my life was a book it would be an ironic comedy turned sour and drenched in wine. A tragedy coming of age it would be called, a lesson about nothing, a series of events that led to another series of event, over and over again, without end, a spiral downwards.

Once it was naiveté and innocence. Then affliction summoned honey-coated lies curled under my tongue. When all was drenched in grey, when the mirror reflection was a shadow, and bread turned to ash in my mouth I fell, and was caught.

All I ever envied, to plummet... yet come out and still see the light, to still believe that we can save ourselves from simple fragility such as greed, lust and envy. Yet, he was just a scribble, a note on a page bleached by the sun, ink smeared by snow.

No fall will wake you up. There is no end to the plummet. Somewhere on the decent there is a branch, and you will hold on. A hand grabs yours, pulls you up. You rest together, tired of falling, decide to climb.

But it is not until afterwards, when the ascent is done, when blistered fingers grab hold of the dirt on the surface, you realise that there are those who did not fall, those whose books are not torn, or bleached, or smeared with ink.

And ignorance is bliss. Cynicism is a lie. Naiveté is truth. It will stir something in you, something long lost. A reminder of something that is no longer a memory, not even a scribble in the margin. May it be new chapter, the beginning of an epilogue, or the transition to yet another act, a prelude to the end, an interlude to beginnings dawn.

For me it was not a scribble, a chapter, or an act. It was a title, and I named it after her.

April.