We all have our little stories. And most of us consider them worth hearing. We rehearse them – a perfect script when asked what we do, where we come from, are we married, any kids. Mostly, we’re trying to impress others and validate ourselves. But what often happens is we forget the most interesting parts – the dirty parts, the troubled times, the struggles.
It is an interesting thing, migrating from the north to the south in the middle of winter. My body and mind feel deceived – as if I am in a waking dream. The warm sun on my face, the familiar heat causing my freckles to sprout and cheeks to pink feels unnatural. The sound of the breeze and leaves still hung on the trees is a music my ears are not ready for.
In the north, the air itself feels frozen. The snow and cold muffles the sound of traffic and wind and children. It is a weight that cannot be shaken and the sun itself cannot penetrate very far past offering a milky light on the crystalizing snow. People become fossilized in the north, their bodies scrunched up tight, shoulders grazing their earlobes trying to brace themselves against the wind and the piercing cold.
But here, in the south, tables are left out for people to sit at restaurants and cafes year round. It is the middle of January and I have sunburn. Whatever dream I am walking through right now, I hope not to wake. My shoulders are relaxed, I can hear and smell and taste things. My tongue and eye is not numb to the cold. My body will remain loose and agile. I will smile easier.
This was written weeks ago. Before I had a dog, before I had two jobs, before I was lonely. It's nice to go back and read something written when I was happy. It gives me the hope that the sun will shine again, I'll write again, that the bits from before that were beautiful were once ahead of me, and that there might be more, ready to be written about.