Every December that rolls around with the cold monsoon season had me out of breath. 31 days of me unwrapping old wounds and pressing salt into it. The Capricornus moons, Sagittarius suns. I realized that I would always be home for the month and that this is my last December being home, mushed underneath my warm blue blanket and listening to my mother’s slow songs playlist. Taking naps beside the window to soak up the sun rays on days when the Sun decides to show itself.
I have had friends who chose to stay in this deadbeat town, born and raised and perhaps into a full circle of life. I may not understand how fond a person could be of one place that they do not mind staying in its bubble, but I do understand the idea of clinging onto familiarity and not wanting to let go of it.
So many floods are bound for the summary of 365 something. I’ve seen the seas and fog droplets and salt sadness on the corner of so many eyes, the spill of blood, the bitter little splash of anger, warm rain and soaked socks, the peace and panic, slow river flow. The vial of life manifests in the physical embodiment of life itself. Taking shapes and colours of things to show.
This is my last monsoon in this place.
And I don’t and can’t see myself dying in this place.
I unfold my mistakes in front of me every year-end and dissect them to sink in the lesson. Ones that fail current year I would shake hands with again next year all until I understand that abundant of things come to teach me a lesson of a lifetime.
I will die, but I don’t see myself dying anywhere near to you.
I will die, but with seas separating.
I would lie, but it’ll be fine if you skip my inevitable funeral.
Of all the things I can and cannot feel, I want to know contentedness in its earnest form. To say goodbye and meaning it. But it’ll take some more time, yeah? I’m taking my sweet time on the ride. Take a drag to remember everything ends.
That’s one way for life to be fair. You could think of “everything ends” as a comforting mantra or a cynical one, but that’s fairness of life. Happy times flies by, struggles have a definite end. So that’s also another name for hope. You get to feel a lot on the spectrum.
Like when the monsoon/winter ends, spring rolls around. You'd get to see the flowers bloom again in the hidden hills.
Then summer would take your hands down to the beach at midnight
and I'd flick that orange lighter so hard that I truly become an arsonist.
Autumn then changes all of us into stranger for the countless of times,
and winter will see to me bleed unholy red against its whites.
Only the next time I'm doing it, I'll be doing it far away from home.
