The Sun also rises in March. Despite the rain, the snow and your cold heart, the Sun will rise. I know this, for it has always been this way. I know this, because I listen to the Earth. The trees are green, not with leaves; their bark. Their bark is green; the long winter has taken its toll, and the bark is green. I was raised believing green to be a happy color. A color of prosperity, of “go”. Green today is no such thing. Green is moss. Green is old bread. Green is the color of trees in late March. And green is the color of your eyes. I should think you had been staring at trees in March for too long, your eyes forever doomed to reflect them back to the World. But I know that’s not the case. I know you’re not like me. I know you’re green by design, not by choice.
Calling your name out into the rain. But to what use? I long ago discovered the vastness of these lands. I long ago discovered I couldn’t call you up when I wanted to. I long ago discovered I couldn’t simply discover you; you would show yourself to me when you saw it fit to do so. And who would want to be discovered on days like this? Except for me, of course. Except for my insatiable hunger for your eyes, your attention: your devotion. No, being discovered today is no easy feat, and some greater power must pull for that to be a wish in a human soul.
The seas are remarkably still. They must feel the weight of the World push down on them. I haven’t seen a single wave today, while feeling an entire ocean drop down from above. Neighbours are picking flowers. This is the scale of it all: a world crumbling, a world static, and a world that continues as it always has. This is the scale of it all, and this is what has me so exhausted, twitching with every movement anything in the World makes. This is why I feel ill today. I can’t describe it: I feel the World.
It started last night. At least, that’s when I first became aware of it. I couldn’t fall asleep, and I could do nothing but lie in bed, twisting and turning, trying to shake off this new feeling. I could do nothing but try to figure out what was happening. I felt pain, I felt joy, I felt love, birth and a lot of death. I felt the lifetime of a generation in an instant. And the Sun is hidden behind the clouds. And the clouds are hidden behind the fog. And the fog is hidden behind my eyelids. And I am trying to escape.
How do you escape knowledge? How, when I know the suffering, the cruelty and the beauty and goodness that could be instead, can I escape that knowledge? Call me a coward: I’m not the man for this task. I’m not the one you’re looking for. Should I shout it from the rooftop? Should I write you a letter? Should I just find a knife and do what you do with knives?
Can I forget?
The Sun also rises in March. And this is my hope. This is what I must not forget. Such a fragile thing, the mind, the memory. The loss. Such a fragile thing, the light. Such a fragile thing, you. And when I felt everything, I felt your hole dig into me even stronger than before. I felt everything, and instead of you, I felt your negation. And a negation is also a thing, just as a thing is a thing. And I felt that I wouldn’t feel anymore.
And I felt that the Sun would rise.