Spring isn’t here yet and I am no closer to my resolve. I hear it fluttering in the cold wind, teasing my senses. I feel the sun peak out of a cloud, and as it does the blood pumping through my body shakes off its’ viscousness and flows brilliantly. But then the sun cowers away, leaving my body to fall back into despair. The wind picks up and scowls down upon my extremities.
My hands have seen a thousand years this winter. The knuckles are cracked and dry, splintering into gouging cuts. They are of no human form; they have taken the shape of the reptile. I look down upon myself, watching the movement of my hands. They do not seem like mine. They terrify me. They twist and contort; every tightening muscle opening the gap between my outer and inner layer.
The cold works its’ way into the cracks of my knuckles and sends chills up my arms, across my shoulders, and down my spine. The fog is unmistakably a stomping ground for getting lost deep within, but the chill is the hell that banishes one’s life to a winter of servitude and solitude. I cannot take this invisible force any longer. It is a dementor, sucking the very life and breath out of my soul. It turns me into stone. It takes ahold of my body and mind, crushing my greater thoughts into pebbles and dust.
The wind, weathering down my stone body, attempts to scatter my brilliance in the wind so that I may get lost in oblivion and forget what it means to be me. I must resist the urge to break down. I must resist the strength of defeat. Slightly hunched I tighten my core until it seems as if I may explode, like an over-pressurized container. That deafening white noise, the whistling wind, whips through my ears until it feels as though they may pop. My equilibrium fades out of consciousness. I begin to stumble and wobble through the cold, still clenching my hands and stomach firmly.
Another winter has wained, dragging its’ feet until the very end. Its’ resilience to change, and stubbornness to control itself has left me very fowl and decrepit.