Winter without you is even colder."
-Lemony Snicket, A Series of Unfortunate Events: Hostile Hospital
The setting sun looks warm. The romantic colors of crimson and lavender emerge beautifully, as if my eyes saw them just now, for the first time. The birds seem so happy- there beyond the curtain of hues- forgetting about all the worries and anxieties of life for the moment, indulging in merriment and seizing it like there is nothing else that’s much more valuable than the delight they feel, like there is no other day left.
His eyes seem to share the same feeling. All the lovely things that lay before us appear as a framed picture of something else when I look through his eyes, like the power of every element is amplified, but still in modest details. His gaze is wonderfully laid back with a hidden root of profound tranquility. I fall in love with him more deeply as I try to decipher and delve into his boundless well of thoughts.
That was what I remember in my dream the other night. In my dream, I was the happiest girl in all the dreamworlds dreamt by all humans combined. In the realm of my dreams, the kingdom of my unconscious mind, there was so much warmth embracing me. It was the loveliest feeling. No, not the love we- the man in my dream and I- had, but the tender heat. A heat that, even in the coldest of places, would still continue to flare up and burn; would never be as feeble as a lit matchstick held by a little girl on a cold snowy night and will never waver like the hope of a drowning man from the lighthouse.
But as soon as I wake up, I am perplexed by the contrary feeling I am wearing everyday. I feel cold. My body is not shivering, no, but my heart does. I feel colder than a body deprived of life forever, or perhaps we are in the same coffin of atmosphere.
The weather these days is a bit hazy. At surprising moments, the clouds would suddenly cry, as if they feel the pain I am in. But their sympathetic weeping is not enough to make me feel less cold for the coldness that I feel is not brought about by any severity of climate, not of austere winds nor of hostile storms. This is something else, one of deeper root.
A thousand blankets cannot warm me up. Not even the embrace of my beloved cherry sweater can fill the warmth that I need. Not even the voice of things that make me feel home could lessen the sharp sting of ice being stabbed against the walls of my fragile heart.
But what on this earth do I need to make me feel less cold?
I do not know. I do not know where to look for it. I do not know what to look for. I do not know how to find some abstract insubstantial object which would kindle a fire and give me warmth- the warmth like that in my dream.
Tonight the star lights kiss me to say good night. I do not know if are they are still alive or whether they are now dead matter floating around, feeling as cold as I do. Their stellar beauty indeed is a sight to behold- something that perhaps I should not metaphorically align the feeling of coldness with, but still, they are lightyears away and may feel as cold as I do.
Tonight the moon glows with a humid stare.
Tonight I do wonder whether the man on it feels the way that I do.
For if he does I understand.
