And just like that, the world dies.
Ashes of a burned-out summer dance outside the window. A funeral shroud over foreign grasses that clung, ’til now, to green. And by February, we’ll say: “was it all a dream? So it was all just a dream.”
We trade in Technicolour summers for rabbit-ear winters. White and black and grainy film, time elapsed in fits and jerks. Wake up, bundle up, hot shower, go to work. So goes the dirge of all northern cities. Press pause. Hit play. Stay inside. Shiver the day away.
It’s hard to imagine living in a place where the leaves don’t die and the sun stays alive and the air doesn’t hurt and the grass doesn’t hide. Places where you never shield your eyes from the glitter and the glare, or trudge through streets quiet with smothered sounds.
But then: exhaust and sand will turn our white world brown.
And piss in the snow.
And blood in the snow.
With furtive glances out the window, I brace myself against the coming storms. Another Winnipeg winter, another death before the world’s reborn. Another year to ask: can I make it through? Or will I lose my mind?
I’m not a winter person. But the world, like me, just needs to take some time.
(I’m sorry. I totally forgot I had a blog.)