literature

What I feel

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AmnaTea's avatar
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Literature Text

You know, winters in my home country aren’t like everywhere else. Yes, there are those pretty snowy days. But it`s not about them. I won’t talk to you about them now, for you have probably seen those dreamy postcards and watched those mushy Christmas movies. Maybe I will not tell you much about weather also, for the weather in this story of mine is just a medium through which I would like to express myself.
It’s about me. It’s about the way I feel. You look at this soul-chilling scenery. Picture painted in gray, brown, red, black, with some random burrs of evergreen plants, whose colors have become muddy and cold. These colors in their darker and lighter shades from time to time are being covered with translucent blanket of small droplets falling fast, till clouds drift apart, letting faint rays of sun touch our hearts and play with ghost-like reflections which appeared on a turbid but mirror-like surface of water. This kind of changes happens inside of me, too. Just like me falling on the floor from hysterical laughter and then quickly entering my room and bursting into tears of regret. I don’t want you to think that I accept my laughter as the sunny weather. No, it hurts. But when I cry I can let it out. And I don’t want you to think that this dense sorrow of this weather always makes me depressed. I’ve learnt to love this creepy, emotionless beauty. It makes me nostalgically happy and pleasantly sad. But I wouldn’t have lied if I said that sometimes it makes me feel incomplete; to the level that sweet pink blossom of geranium, these peachy walls and rich curtains, these dim but soft yellow lights in my room seem like colorless dead objects. Sometimes I feel all of above at the same time, and it may be painful but beautiful to feel.
Winds blow and slowly take small smithereens of our broken souls with them. But I won’t hand in. It’s better to feel shattered memories in your chest rather than feeling nothing. It’s better to remember and suffer rather than forget and live in obscuration. Wind blows even more, waving my hair, frost biting my cheeks, on which hot streams of my tears flow. I am looking at this scenery. I am thinking. I won’t hand in.
© 2017 - 2024 AmnaTea
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OLIVER-YOUNG's avatar
But you have a poetical way to think and write