maybe it’s ironic that spring and autumn are my favourite seasons. they are soft and calm and pastel and they simply give a quiet scent of their essence. a dab of perfume. the whisper of a wind. they’re light and warm and cool. the colours are those in-between ones. the peaceful pinks and soft tumbles of orange and brown. it’s light caresses from the sun and kisses from the breeze.
and yet here i am. in all my terrible glory. i am fire and ice. never something in the middle. never a grey area. too much and not enough. too big and too small. too much of one thing and not enough of the other. i’m something of a paradox. two ends of a spectrum in a violent concoction that should never have existed. i cancel myself out. the positive and the negative. until i am neutral. until i am nothing. i am summer and winter. harsh heat and burning cold. i don’t make sense. i melt what i freeze. i burn ice. i’m just a puddle on the floor. no more significant than the charcoal at the end of a fire. i’m burning myself out. i am black and i am white. i poison each side of myself with the other. i cancel myself out. until i am nothing.