You like the sunshine. You love the feel of the heat on your skin, the warmth of spring that quite literally puts the spring back in your step. I’ve never seen you happier than when the sun is shining, and when you can sit in the garden, reading or listening to music, or just being, admiring and experiencing the brightening of the day, the opening of the plants, and the fresh breeze tickling your cheek bones. Something in you changes in the summer sun – you’ll never see it for yourself, but it’s true.
Spring, and all that comes with it – that’s what makes you smile. The rising of that first, unassuming sun of the warmer seasons becomes the dawn of months of smiles, of childish laughter and the scent of fresh grass. There’s that first ice-cream of the summer, and the squeals of gleeful delight as it drips onto your t-shirt. And there’s the walks through the park, beside the water, the site of so many conversations, so many secrets and smiles, shared then, but treasured as memories today, and forever.
I like the nighttime, the pitch-black sky and the silence that comes when no one else is here to speak. Oh, for the night, with its cold, sharp air, and the temporary death of everything right, and everything living. The stars above – so small, so insignificant – remind me that we’re alone down here, that there is nothing else – nothing close by, anyhow – here to save us.
How many secrets the night keeps. It sees me at my most vulnerable, and my most broken: pieces of myself surfacing to present themselves to it as the sun sets and the darkness closes in. The blindness of the after-hours shields me, allows me to break, and to feel it; to hurt, and to feel it; to share my deepest fears, insecurities, doubts, upsets – all of it –, and feel it.
I love the night.
You – oh, you want to dance. You turn up the music, grinning that crazy grin, and dance. There’s no elegance, no grace or self-consciousness: you just dance, clapping and jumping, running and skipping, singing the lyrics of your favourite songs so loudly it hurts. You don’t care; this is how it feels to have fun, to be free and care-free. This is how it feels to be young and happy. Others may get drunk, or go to the wildest of wild parties, but you’re happy, in your bedroom, dancing. Just dancing.
I want a storm. I yearn to run, run out the door and to feel the lash of the ice-cold rain on my face, to fight the force of a gale, holding me back. The crash of the thunder – so dissonant – encourages the raging clouds, blotting out the blue of the sky and dampening the world below. As lightening strikes, the pure misery of what’s below is merely emphasised, lit up in the brightest of light for everyone to see how hopeless the whole thing really is.
Passively, I’ll adopt my role, sitting and observing, not from afar, but from within. I will feel the storm pushing me down, dragging me under, because I won’t be able to fight it, and I won’t want to, either. Like a vice the storm will grip me, clutching me in its grip to do with me as it pleases, to force me down, down, dwon, before hoisting me up like a rag-doll for the world to see. It will spin my round, fling me about, break me into hundreds of fragments, and then drop me, and leave. Leave, until next time.
How can two so different, so distant, coexist so harmoniously? A balance of viewpoints, of perspectives and understanding, yet rivals in every field, living as one, sharing all. How can one body, one soul, one mind and one heart be so split?
Some days, I like the gothic: the dark, the rain, the emptiness and silence of nothing, and yet of everything; on others, I crave the daylight, the sun and the hustle and bustle of the world – I need it, to throw myself into whole-heartedly, unconditionally. Sometimes, ‘days’ last for weeks, or months; sometimes ‘days’ are hours, and I’ll live out my week’s-worth of days between the dawn and dusk of just one. However long they last, I try to experience each and every one of them, to allow myself to feel, and to just let them be. Sometimes that’s tough, and I try to fight them – either of them –, longing for a new day, because I’m just not feeling this one. Other times, I cling on to a day with almost violent desperation, because I can’t cope with an alternative today, or tomorrow, and ‘today’ has just been so me, felt so right.