Thaw

An Armchair Perfectionist

It is slow. It is painful. It is unavoidable. It is welcome.

I am bending to the will of the increasing warmth of the sun. The clouds have broken through in a glorious display of song and dance, the memories of the frost all but forgotten. It feels like waking up from a long, tormented sleep where even nightmares would have been welcome instead of the blank lifeless vacuum that held no concept of meaning.

The blood is running through my fingers again as I furiously set the pen to paper. Doodles make way to letters and then somehow, magically, unfathomably, the letters are turning to words. I am afraid to stop writing lest the sunshine gets lost and I get frozen – suspended back into the land of the long winter.

Oh! I have missed being here. I have missed giving reign to my thoughts. I have missed the…

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