The beginning of spring, as beautiful as it is, comes with a price for me. Because as the flowers bloom and the wind brings sweet perfume dancing around my face, it also carries with it a bittersweet melancholy that settles into my skin.
It never lasts long and quickly goes back to where it came from, to hide in wait for another year; coming back a little heavier than it was the year before.
But it those few weeks I find myself dragging my feet, weighed down with lost friends and summers, memories of places that have never been as magical since. Weighed down with childhood dreams long forgotten and the person that I thought that I would be.
However this isn’t a self-pity blog. The melancholy is bittersweet for a reason. Bittersweet because while I miss them, I have been lucky enough to have these sweet memories than demand my attention for a short-period of time. And so I wallow. And pay them the attention they are craving, because they deserve that much.
And eventually I come to my senses and shake myself awake again with the reminder that there are plenty more bittersweet memories to be made.
And that I’ll have even more bittersweet memories to miss next year.
Which is a beautiful thing.