I love this time of year, here in my city. For about two weeks in the middle of winter, the weather changes and becomes calm, sunny, warm and lovely. Usually it’s the same time as the cherry blossoms bloom and the lost majik of my city once again asserts itself.
All of her denizens become happy, and generous of spirit, as if they had beef freed from the yoke of slavery. Slavery to the cold, the wet, to the indoors and each other.
It is also the month I have chosen for my birthday.
Since at the time of my first birth, calendars weren’t yet invented. People tracked time the old fashioned way, with the rising of the moon, the raising of crops or the passing of sons in war.
But about a thousand years ago I decided to celebrating the birthday of my current incarnation as my true birthday.
But I digress…
I love my city, but she’s having troubles. The gulf between rich and poor is no more apparent than here. Mocking all of us with a horrible reflection of our leaders ideas of our future.
I have never really believed in politics or ism’s
That was always my brothers job. I was content to stand by and watch, to be the commentary on life. But now that he passed, his mantle of activism has bled into my soul and won’t go away. As much as I try it seems to assert itself when I least expect it.
Indeed. I get lost at times when I write. Deciding to move with the flow as opposed to the thought.
My city, my beautiful morally bankrupt city, is still the only place I call home. The only place that calls my name as I walk her streets at night, climb her hill during the day.
Whispering to me in the slightest of ways.
As long as there is winter-spring, I’ll believe her.