A Seed Stuck in Winter


You could be my spring.

Make me rich with different hues of happiness and help bloom into this world the purest roots of love.

You could teach me the beauty of that creature that beats underneath my chest. That creature gives me life, I've heard people say, but why have I never felt like so?
Why do I not feel alive?

I could sit here, on my bed, and listen to it rain and storm and shine and not. Hear those that are truly alive speak and breathe and cry and laugh and sleep and wake and repeat. I could do it, for what meaning does existing truly possess? And after all, in end, our destinies are but one and the same. Death and death and death.

I could do it.
Sit and stare and exist in sheer silence until I die and die and die. But then there you are. Perfect in mind and body and soul. Carved and birthed and raised just for me. You do not know that, of course. But would you like to? Is what I am asking. The great question of my life.

Would you like to be my spring?
Would you like to breathe life into me, that I may speak and breathe and cry and laugh and sleep and wake and repeat? Do that for me, so that when I die and die and die, I would have lived before that.
I would smile and remember your name, the great joy of my life.

Be my spring and give me color, for, you see, the world as I look at it now, is naught but gray and black and white and white. Be my spring, let me sprout from this little shriveled plant and blossom into a woman of beauty and variance.

I could do so for you in return, water you and give you sunlight and rain. But your words, as I remember them now, sitting on my bed, your words towards me are harsh and cold and those eyes be no different. Those eyes make me shiver and want and need warmth.

You are winter, and I hate the cold.
But if the tales of the weather be true, then a time will come when you will change from winter to spring. And I will be waiting for you on my bed, ready to be watered and given sunlight, so that I may live and live and live.

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