March Melancholia

„The sunset is pink again“, I tell my witch and she giggles out into the night.
„Is that you‘re reason to cry?“, she asks.

I have always enjoyed it when the sunset is taking longer, painting more colours at the horizon at the end of the day.

The promising of warmer, better days.
The memory of life in the distance.
Sometimes, I have called March my favourite month of all.
The world is slowly waking up.
Another year is about to start.

Taking long walks through these long sunsets in March always makes me wonder what this year will be like, and sometimes I end up wondering how time went by so fast. Was this really another year? And while I walk and wonder, the temperature promising spring but not withstanding the night yet gives me a headache.
Now I wonder and my head wants to burst.

And then, of course, I remember four years ago.
March four years ago was the best until March 13th, with Friday the 13th being the best days of all, only to afterwards be swallowed by history.
A history I survived, but not everyone I would have needed to did.
Then again, some did. And the story went on.
Still, the fear was there.
I remember watching these longer, later sunsets and not being able to breathe, expecting the world to end every moment now, and since it did not, to struggle even more.

„I have this March Melancholia again“, I admit to my witch as we walk through the pink and the purple, soon to be swallowed by black.
I wonder what will happen next.
I question if I used the past years as good as I could have.
The fear of history to swallow up everything again lingers at every corner.

God, I can‘t wait for summer with Iced Latte and poetry.