It happens every year.
I stand on the cusp of spring, which seems to be late this year, and wonder how I will do it. Like the dark comfort of depression’s blanket, winter is easy to sink through: the days that are over before they’ve begun, when going outside at all is enough for me to scratch an invisible mark on my tally of daily heroics. It’s not always a pleasure, but it’s slow, and I have time to think—too much—clearly.
Summer, in contrast, must be grabbed with both hands, the stretching days ‘made the most of’ and not a drop of them wasted.
I peer through a gap in the fortress I’ve made, towards my future self, doing everything at once, being a different person to everyone and succeeding, chaotically, smiling. I’ve collected evidence as a reminder that I am this person: my walls are plastered with maps and photos, scraps of paper which chronicle my life. Confidence grows by doing things, but why does it fade so quickly?
Life on an island becomes like a shell, mostly made of excuses.
Eventually it cracks.
