I scare myself with bitterness: Mersault found within him an invincible summer in the midst of winter but I do not want even to pretend that that is what I am looking for. I am numb beyond existentialism. But not numb with cold.
In my youth, my favorite colour was green because of spring and trees and turtles and frogs and when the weather turned and the leaves grew back I would whittle the time away outside barefoot, on the grass, loving the warmth of sun-kissed skin and the breeze on my dry cheeks.
Today the leaves grow back and the green resurfaces and the warmth has the world walking with an optimistic spring it its step but today I think that maybe I do not like green that maybe my favorite colour is orange. Dark but bright? Or yellow, because it can be cheer to some but the moment you place it beside white suddenly yellow is impurity and for all the pure innocence of spring, everything is, is it not, washed over in a translucent coat of yellow, stifling sunlight.
So I yearn for winter and for cold for numb fingers just before they are thawed by yellow fires for sweaters and scarves and hot cocoa for bare trees outlined with snow and for the world blanketed, from green grass coated with frost to yellow sun obliterated by clouds, by the sparkling snow, white in all its gloomy glory.