The seasons are passing, and my expectations have reached their autumn now. The leaves have changed shades and eventually started to fall. All that remains is a few branches of hope, and they wait for winter to come and shroud them, and then you wont even see those any more.
Do you think that the death of expectation will give birth to the season of peace?
I’ve decided to forgive you. Not because you have changed, nor because I have, but because the burden of carrying my anger has started to weigh down upon me. I am weather beaten by the winds of time. Tired, so very tired, I need to stop.
Why now, why here, I do not know. Perhaps a little bit of realisation that life does not follow the script. Perhaps the wisdom that there are two sides to every story. You may be my antagonist, and I am probably yours.
Do you think that perhaps I am mistaking purgatory for life?
The seasons are passing but I seem to have missed spring. Cactus flowers, however beautiful, do not make the land fertile.
I’ve decided to stop searching, but have not decided to stop living. I’ll walk my path, and even if its not lined with roses, I’ll still stop to see the intricate patterns in the grains of sand. And when my eyes have failed, and my nerve endings die, I’ll still have worlds of imagination to explore.
So when all the seasons have passed, I’ll dream up seasons of my own. We’ll walk different shores in that picture, but we will still be in it, both you and I. Because the seasons may pass, but the threads still hold.
In response to the Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday – Season.