WINTER'S GARDEN

One night, overcome with certain inexplicable emotion, I began writing. It had been one of those unserious attempts at seriousness, yet it was as if this temporary place of rest, one weakened by laziness and reluctance, was shaken by the desire to make something great of my budding anguish — something worthy of earning the right to heal. 

 

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The story was compelled out of my cowardly corner, overtaken by the hostility of bitter truth: it was time to move forward. 

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I felt something inflate and deflate within me. I had carried so much of everything that it hurt to finally let go. It had been so personal, too intimate, and so private. But giving the abstract a form, materialising it into something more intelligible was very freeing. the things i couldn’t understand, the things I have yet to say, those feelings that seemed too real and hard were sealed off inside this piece. to this day, I still think of this as being my most honest and most raw expression of grief.