seasonal feelings

The clocks have gone back an hour and once again time has been meddled with by a man. We have tricked ourselves into believing that there is an extra magical hour of daylight now. An extra hour of life buzzing and whirring till night falls abruptly, a little too suddenly.

Winter is upon us, officially and well, and whenever it is so, I find myself yearning for little pockets of different geographies. The claustrophobia of the heated indoors and being swathed in layers when outdoors gives birth to a strange restlessness in me. I long for places faraway and distant, both that I’ve been to and have had dreamy visions of. And then, I long for some that I once left behind with a heavy heart and a tired mind.

Spring slowly reveals its presence, welcoming the cold goodbye until the next year to come. Breathing dreams like air for I can  not really wait for the quiet beauty of a beautiful chaos of the blooming flowers. Some half-baked dreams and a pile of regrets wait for yet another times.

I think I have never been meeting the exact summer. Everyday is a summer to me. However once more people are coming to enjoy the seasons, most of the time that is when I decide to be a hermit, cocooned in the languid warmth of the coffee while reading an old-favorite book while simply watch the world go by. However sometimes, flying away is the only way to stay back in people’s heart. So we will miss the cheerful summer.

Now I am then meeting the Autumn. When asked recently if this is how I’ll always be — click umpteen pictures of the same neighborhood everyday, quake with a childlike excitement on spotting the first autumn leaf, google laborious descriptions of unknown flora just to know their name, doodle my favorite views from the hotel window after a holiday — my answer is, yes.

This is how I am and these are the things that make me who I am. I am a creature of moments and the little things wrapped in them. I draw my life sap from celebrating the neglected magic of the humdrum everyday. I have always lived by hoarding these tiny moments and making memories in the process. And I don’t know how to do it any other way.

Author: Lina Kariim

under my pen name, i write.

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