Spring is still far, and new beginnings are still hindered by lingering goodbyes. It’s hard to say goodbye. It’ll never be easy. What gets easier is choosing yourself.

When the thunderstorms accompany the brilliant flashes of lightning, you realize the heavens are no less familiar with defeat than the dreams. The deafening shutters of rain clear your canvas away to reveal an irresistible shade of pink and green. It’s equally devastating.

Suddenly, you’ve entered history. Bronzed libraries and encyclopedias of knowledge, of wars and political clamor, of obsession and hatred. You look less closer, and it looks like love. Indigo is gone, leaving you in the desert, and you’re the last dry flower standing. Still decaying but everlasting.