What makes winter evenings warm?
Fireplace. Blankets. Coffee.
And a cocoon of warm, fuzzy, winter tales!
Express Magazine brings to you its first series of wintry delights. ” Remnants of a withered winter “. A double collection of winter stories and poems from the house and from the readers. We will be accepting entries till the end of this season. So, why don’t you scribble down those stories, and the unfettered emotions and send it to us fast?
The premonitions are ominous. The cold frosty winds started a bonfire from the remnants of the dying night, lighting up many a pensive heart. The soft chords of a Christmas carol could be heard at a distance; coupled with the melodious chants of a group of choir boys. The spirit of the delightful winter can be truly felt in the festive air. The straining icy smell in the air wafts into our nostrils, stirring up a lot of rancid memories. Winter are for introspection.
Of past follies and new tragedies waiting to happen. You can almost feel the nostalgia seep in slowly. Like a Porcupine Tree number tripping on you. Eventually consuming you. You try to escape from this suffocating chill but it consummates with you like a trap. A rat trap. You fight vehemently against the inhibitions you have created around yourself. On a loop. It happens every winter. You know the struggle. You have been through this apocalypse before.
The plebian enclosure of cynical affection, the aura of sensuous touches; the passion of burning kisses; the magic of unrequited love; the abyss of pent- up emotions. All this new age drama with the scars; the blushes; the gimmicks and all the over- dramatic futility. Battered and bruised every winter; but still petite, like an unfelt lullaby waiting to be devoured; a Pandora’s Box waiting to be opened.
Your bones don’t feel the mush anymore. You have a way with them .To go right through the emotions where the paranoia kicks in. A certain state of slumberous surrender where all the pain gets squashed beneath the Santa scamper and reindeer songs; the parody of sweet delights and happiness. You hide your inner insecurities in a tiny cocoon somewhere deep within where the white Christmas lights can neither reach, nor usher in any warmth.
You fake a social lifestyle pattern just to ward off any unwanted insights on your depressing reality. Those pretentious sounds of clamoring laughs and lyrical music ring harrowingly in your ears to a point of no return.
It is one of those disillusioned evenings. You have this burning desire to breathe the heavy aroma of strong brewed coffee but it evades you. You are lost for reason. Then it strikes you. Like the one that got away. You are the coffee. Always had been that way. Crushed, brewed and sipped through hungry lips and teased by lustful eyes. It is all hunky dory. Well. Not like in the quintessential Woody Allen movie, but in a more dramatic phase and in more somber light.
Winter evenings of blessed yule had never been about the old man in a red suit. Or the hot beverages and the unread dust smeared pages of Kafka and Segal. It has not been about Christ’s first cry or some fucked up reindeer with a crimson nose. Nobody cares about the reindeer. It is the dire wolves that matter.
Home is where your insecurities lie bare. Naked. Afraid of no one. You now have come out of your cocoon.
It is now time to be a butterfly; a time to finally grow up. To show your unattended scars in front of an even more moronic crowd. A pathetic audience. Waiting with bated breath to inflict upon your scars, but too fragile to heal them. Timid enough to tame your indomitable spirit. But you can’t tame a spirit, can you?
These were the last signs of depression. There is no looking back now. You are a new self now, devoid of all past fallacies. It is all you now. Bare and naked. Ready to take on the world amidst all the stigmas. This self is a new you. The autumn has created magic. You are much stronger now. Ready to take on the idiosyncrasies and melodrama of the world again. You are you again .For one more summer. Until next winter.
Winter evenings are now in love, going places. Taking your perfunctory heart in a ride though through the snow. The purity in the air can be smelt through your bones, knitting your dysfunctional heart with an aura of optimism.
From snowflake to snowflake.
Snowcap to Snowcap.
Heart to heart.
Pulses race like the reindeers dragging sleighs through the misty winter mornings.
Winters have always been about the snow, hasn’t it?
Our readers are invited to send us their entries for the ” Remnants of a withered winter ” column. Mail us your stories, or poems at this address by the end of this season – firstname.lastname@example.org.
About the author :-