La Primavera

La primavera ha fiorito come un fiore. È possibile che l'inverno già si è concluso.

The winter broke. You could almost hear it's grip shatter as the the ice cracked, sliding in plates over the wet ground. The snow melted quickly into little rivulets that bled down streets and city sidewalks like rainwater in a heavy storm.

We had to replace the battery on my Ford Contour; it didn't quite survive the winter. We revved it up for the first time and I had to take a long drive up Clayton to get it ready. The sun seemed very bright and the air was warm and still.

The birds were our first hint of the coming spring; chirping weeks ago in the early morning hours. Their songs were almost indistinguishable from the squeaking of the Contour, but I heard them nonetheless. It was dark when I drove to school then; now the sun is shining. Dawn comes not long after I wake up. The sun rises as I put on my shoes and step out into the day. The walk to the pit is well lit, and I know longer need to wear double gloves to retain the slightest feeling in my fingers.

Yes, the spring comes. It has bloomed like a flower. Winter's hold is broken, I know it. The snow has lingered resiliently, but I know it's near death. In the earliest morning there is a heavy frost; the meltwater freezes overnight. But the thin ice it forms has all the strength taken out of it. This ice doesn't mean anything. It doesn't threaten anymore.


The snow melts, with it the memories that linger in the wintertime. Beside the fire, in the warm darkness of the house, underneath the covers, memories linger in the shadows. The heart freezes in the depths of winter, kept from neither affection or love but simply from moving. Hopes and dreams slide to a slow, silent stop.


Once the future didn't scare me at all. Now I am terrified of it. But what can I do? The spring comes. I can only try to face it bravely. Change comes, and quickly. Had I made a prediction for today,

Six months ago... I would have said that this would be a spring without Tidbit, a spring of memories of a little brown dog that frolicked in the spring grass and loved to sleep in sunlight falling through glass.

A year ago... I would have said that this would be another spring of blind joy, an ease in everything, and high hopes for a summer of endless possibility. I would have said that not a day would pass without talking to Stian and to Austin, my heart's best friends...

Two years ago... I would have said that this spring I'd have a thousand more friends, be happy and social, well liked, with great grades and an ever maturing soul. With any luck, I'd be RPing, at least a bit.

Five years ago... I would have said that by now, I'd be a pillar of maturity and perfection. I'd be the admin of a thriving LOTR RPG board, know a ton of Elvish, maybe some other languages if I got bored. By 16, I'd be ACCOMPLISHED, damn it... Capable of anything...



The memoirs of a teenager make a terrible story. We who are young see every day as a beginning or an ending. We will never consent to simply being.

But it may be that we are right after all, that each day is a beginning and an ending. Perhaps each day something dies, and perhaps each day something new is born. And in a year, with the coming of the spring...


I should say, "I think I'm just really tired. Or really bored. Or both lolz..."
I should say, "I have no idea what I'm trying to say :P"

But I do. I know exactly what I'm trying to say. I'm just not sure how to say it.
Forgive my ineloquence... And my word creation... ;)