Torches in the Snow

Fi.
An original written by Alexandra.

A painting by Jeremy Miranda

As I spent my evenings roaming,
I would take much notice of the changing
seasons. I became particularly resentful
of the colder climates and the winters, as
it would be most unpleasant with the
stinging cold penetrating relentlessly
through my body. Why did I continue
to wander, you ask? The loneliness and
solitude became unbearable. I would have
rather walked in the frosty fog than be
alone one more night. I would see the
blurred yellow tinge of lamp posts outside
the houses, but none shone as brightly as
hers.

I would always be excited to walk
past her house, but the interaction
we would have would be short and sweet.
She did not live alone, she always had
company, so there was not a lot of
time to talk. It is not that she would
fail to invite me in, but rather, she
did not want to upset those already
inside with my presence.

One night, the torch outside
her house was illuminated brighter
than ever. As if to signal that I was
welcome as more than someone simply
passing by. I was now promoted to a guest.
This coincided with the darkening of
winter, and it was fretfully cold now. I
was extremely relieved to now have a place
where I could be warm and in company.

I entered and it was just as cosy and
peaceful as I had imagined it would be.
The fireplace was crackling away, the table
was all set with a pristinely white cloth, on it,
a boiled teapot with two cups ready to be
served. The orange lights created a warm,
idyllic ambience. I instantly felt at home,
and I wanted to keep returning each night.
She invited me back, and I was ecstatic.

As promised, I kept visiting her each
night. I no longer wished for summer.
I wanted it to remain cold so she and
her house could keep me warm. It was
a shameless punishment which I sought.
I would freeze, only for her to be the one
to melt me.

I am not daft – I could tell she was
beginning to feel as though I had
outstayed my welcome. Her once merry
and emphatic “welcome!” she would
say each night I would arrive, evolved into a
dejected smile and sombre “hello.”
However, my solution was to proceed
as normal, arrive each night with gifts,
keep complimenting the garden. I became
too indulged in my own thoughts, what
I would say, how I would act,
that she became an imposter in her own
home. I think she loved me, nevertheless,
so she would tolerate me and continue to let
me in.

 

I know that the torch we had lit and
continued to relight has inevitably diminished.
I am deeply aware that we actively ignored the
breezes of life that blew out our flame and we
deluded ourselves into thinking that this
was not a sign we were trying to salvage
a lost cause. I acutely felt the thud in my
stomach, as if a chest of drawers had toppled
over, every time you whispered to me,
“Can we stay like this forever?”

Despite all this knowing, what I embarked
upon with you was territory of which I
knew frighteningly little. You knew more
than me, as you had voyaged through
several times before, but I could
tell you were just as scared. I was overjoyed
to be in your home, so much so I entitled
myself to a false sense of ownership, and I
did not invest in its maintenance. I did not see
that the inside was decaying, the wallpaper
was discolouring, the floors and doors were
creaking, the water had run cold. In the end,
you were miserable and had to leave, and
to this day, I am restless with guilt and
remorse for it. I evicted you from your
own home after you gave it to me as shelter.

So, now the time has come to close the door,
know that this house is a sacred memorial.
A burial ground of whatever we were and
whatever we want or do not want to label
ourselves. The echoes of our laughs, the
ricochets of our tears, the cross which
etched itself into the wooden floors
the night you told me you no longer loved
me, will all remain untouched and undisturbed
here. Immortalised in memory, crystallised in
reminiscence, frozen in the snow. The
torch will continue to reignite itself out of
habit and will continue to be carried, long
after my soul eventually farewells this house.
Long after I go.

————————————————————-

Reader, I loved her profoundly.
It was a language of love I did not speak
and an idea of affection I could not
conceptualise. It was a fondness which
would soften the sternest of men. It was a
reliance that would shame the tide and
the moon. It was a depth that made
oceans appear ponds. Yet, this was not
enough. I still wrestle with these thoughts
in the cold of night. How did my love for
her simply not be enough? It was immeasurable,
boundless, absolute. Perhaps the stars ask
the same question: how many of us are
needed to fill the sky? Not enough,
although we are infinite.



I confess this all to you, reader. I hope one
day she will find her path back to me,
illuminated by the torch that still burns.
Until then, may you hear my words?

Image by unknown.