Chapter 8

Die December die

Please don’t die

And here I am today, a man in a park holding a cluttered sheet pressed against his chest.

And I start to think about December the month that died, how depressing life could be, that in all of the greatness lies a lurking thief a monger, who can turn the tables with ease. December was a chapter, written with guilt and deceives an endless sonata of disharmony and rejection. A brutal chapter that gave paper cuts to the heart, the sharp edges that sliced us two apart. No story is more demanding than the ones that turn out into painful acceptance, a quiet recognition that leaves all hope vanished and raped by the premonition of insight.

So there I laid on the cold ground of acceptance making angels out off snow, tears and shame, and I could feel the last breath of December, taunting and haunting me, so I smiled through the tear covers when it finally died, or so I thought.