Winter child

Many dream, few get chosen, but even fewer achieve.

Life was never meant to be a fairytale, not to everyone at least, but it was meant to tell a story. A story that is written by the footprints we mark everyday, and told by every breath we take along the way. And for winter child, it was a short one. Not in length, but in impact.

You see, Winter child was a fragile soul, tentative in every step she took, calculative in every word she spoke, cautious in every glance she stole. She was her owner and her prisoner; her cell carved with numerous wonders that were never given the freedom to be voiced. She dimmed her glow and lived in her shadow. Everyone who saw Winter Child pitied her, except herself, for she didn’t forbid what she was doing to herself, and for that, she was shameful. To be fully conscious of your wrong-doings and persist to do them; that was her principle, a corrupt one to say the least. But often times, the soul doesn’t recognize the poison it feeds itself.

She was the abuser and the abused, the robber and the victim, the deadly and the dead. She chose to perish in her existence, despite the doors of opportunities that opened for her. She let them all go. For what and why? She wondered too.

She was powerless amidst the vivacity of the world, but, if there’s one thing everyone should know about winter child, is that she was kind. A quality that is severally overlooked and scarcely acknowledged. She had a big heart, one that could fit the world in it, and yet, she couldn’t fit herself in it. She couldn’t think of herself the same way she thought of a small flower found in the crack of a sidewalk: Growing in the face of adversity. And that alone, was enough to kill her.

History may have forgotten about winter child, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. Because even short-lived stories deserve to be told. Afterall, life is not just achievements, it’s also the raw eventful pain of living with oneself.