Spring could be so pretty, it always made me sad. When the early sunrise was pink again, and the sun began to shine very careful after all these dark months.
„I wish time would stop being linear“, I say to my witch.
It was almost too warm to wear my boots, but only almost. I would not give them up, yet.
„Remember your unicorn“, Layla says. “Time only is linear for some people.”
I enjoyed the sad and early sun on my face, but then I remembered that it was only February and this it was already much too warm and therefore just another way in which this world was broken.
And I still enjoyed the shy and careful sun painting the rooftops pink.
Another spring arriving also meant that it had now been a year since my world had collapsed.
I could still hear the voices of people I had not seen or spoken to since. I could still remember the weight of my „Friends“-themed to-go-cup filled with coffee in my hand while running for a train.
But seeing this sunrise also meant that I was still alive and to me that meant something.
„You have to think of this phone call“, my witch says, after studying my sun bathed face.
Oh yes, of course.
The phone call and the struggle with time.
This would not be my story if there were no relatives calling and making things worse. I could also still hear their voices as they told me how the pandemic was no reason to not get things done and how a distant cousin and the daughter of a friend had been so much better in … well … getting things done.
„Witching doesn‘t require Daddy-issues, but having to burn alive before being welcomed back home kind of shapes character“, my witch giggled.
„They are so wrong“, I say.
I was so tired of this. I was so tired of always having to prove that nothing happening in this world was supposed to have an effect on me, and that whatever happened I just had to keep functioning and work myself from milestone to milestone. My world still felt like I was running and running and never arriving because certain milestones had been taken away and I was still punished for not arriving on time.
„I somehow hope that after this we will reflect all the losses and not just take it to our graves“, I whisper and carefully touch the books on my desk that I had ordered in a brief moment of remembering that I somehow was still a student and had some studying to do.
„Or maybe I have to work on making it visible.“
I had to admit that things going on around me had made me so angry that there had been a sparkle of inspiration arriving, and I hated and loved it when that happened. For now, it meant that besides writing my witching novel, I also felt the need to find the right words and the meaning behind all the invisible things that had been taken from us and that were tearing my head apart.