Saturday, December 19, 2015


The changing of seasons are a visual manifestation of my mind. I've written about seasons in the past. I've written about struggles of the mind. I find the natural illustration perpetually fascinating though, as well as the propensity for the broken to desperately wish that these seasons weren't as predictable as the fluctuations of the mind.

I think that it is natural to want to be whole. To desire to wake up one day and be free from feeling defective. That feeling of being constantly just out of sync and the yearning to fully align, just once. I think that the warmer months can instill an illusory sense of optimism, the belief that, just once, normal is a possibility.

Yes, I know we all carry our baggage, we all wear scars of the past or carry some sort of secret, but those are things which may, hopefully, be put right some day. The mind would be freed to move on, and focus on living, rather than to remain in a regular state of brokenness. Yes, this particular struggle can be remedied with pharmaceuticals, but in their absence the alignment once again becomes twisted, and the symptoms of the greater illness return. It will never be remedied one hundred percent. It will never leave on its own.

Religion, drugs, relationships, hobbies, and causes, these are all ways in which that weight can be alleviated, but at the end of the day one has to be prepared to face what lurks in the moments of idleness. The moments that can't be avoided as a human being. The moments of stillness when the rush of life settles, much as a cloud of dust, and one is confronted, clearly with that defective place within. The thing that only a god could fix, if a god even cared enough about us to do so.

So with the passing of the seasons, into the cold, numbness, brings with it the isolation. The quiet. The stillness that haunts me with all the ghosts of the past, blowing in and out of focus, much like sheets of snow drifting across the roads. The icy tendrils of paralysis, apathy, anger, sadness and contemplation of failures creep back into the picture. Each vying for prominence. Each set to torment if I will, simply allow it.

This is why energy becomes so little in the dead, grey months. Because it takes everything I have to battle these forces.


This is why I still believe that there is a God, and not simply a presence of something greater, but a true, loving God of some kind; prior to, what I believe to be, my experience with this being, I used to be crushed beneath the dark waves that would swell up each spell of winter. I saw no hope or purpose. No end to the pain, and darkness that would envelop my person. That has changed since.

Many people may attribute human strength and characteristics to these shifts. Perhaps the brain has stabilized beyond the volatile juvenile stages. Perhaps its maturity, or different coping skills. Perhaps its the quality of people we surround ourselves with, or better drugs.

I don't believe that. I am still profoundly aware of my brokenness. I am profoundly aware of my desire for isolation, and to live alone with this. Yet, for all my desire to bear it alone, I've never been alone since. I know that I don't make it because my personal strength is so admirable, it has failed in the past, several times. I know, for a fact, that my ability to see hope in the future, and to bear the weight of things, is not my own. That it is there to remind me that there is beauty as well as pain. New mornings coming forth from the darkest nights. The contrast in these promises, as well as the visual paintings we witness every year with the changing of the seasons lead me to believe that these feelings are not simply a product of chance or counseling. They aren't an accident, and also play into the larger metaphor for the short period of time you and I are allotted in this life.

The idea that there is much to live for is one that propels us forward, forever curious about the part we are destined to play in this tragic place. I know, to the very core of my being that that is not an accident.

There are many stories yet to write and many memories to make. There is a brave and bold tomorrow waiting to be shared, if you will simply retain the courage to believe you will make it through the night, and with help beyond that of ourselves, I believe that we can make it out alive.

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