Letter to December

Dear December,

By the time you read this, I hope it is not your next life in the new year, for that would be too late. To begin with, I come from you, the quintessential December child, so even if this letter might seem a bit cribbish to you, accept it in good spirits, like I am in right now. So, you are about cold air and warm lights, bipolar, are you not? And that is how I thus must be? You know the other day I almost dared a letter to the Feminists (and God forbid they read this), but I realized I am too lazy to face their assault on my personal ideologies, whether or not they conform to stereotypes. 

Why do I tell you all this? Because I wished for you to have turned out a little different than the usual lights and liquor you are composed of. I wished you would bring along a good heart, funny and cute. I wished I could have broken the social walls of demoralizing boredom I have built around myself, and I so, so bloody wish there would be a whirlwind romance in the folds of the nip of the air. You would have made so much more meaning when emotions, and not ideals, are to be fought and stood up for. You would have been so much more delightful with someone to invest all this potent love upon. You would be much merrier. Jesus! I think Jesus deserves a letter from me too, what say?

December, dearest, how can you be so cruel to me? How can you allow the cold in me to overpower the warmth I am capable of? What makes you make me significantly diverse in a single frame of a moment? I suffer, you know, in this constant contest of the what-I-should-be and what-I-am. I wish to be completely sloshed one of the nights with no additional caution of having to return home on my own. I wish to unburden myself of responsibilities which no one imposed on me. I want to be free of the self which is a product of January to November. Well, you must be buddies with them, but I care a fig to badmouth them. Barring October, they are similar soul-sucking months of false hopes.

Hopes. Flighty little bubbles. I hate hope even though you wholeheartedly endorse it. I speak out my heart to you tonight and in it I am losing my sense of decency, but again, it is you, so I will. Ever thought of being nice to me? It is easy, you know. I am happy very easily, and at little. And you will know it when I smile that smile which may not extend from the end of my lips to the top of my cheek, but it will be one reflected in the glisten of my eyes. There must be someone, somewhere, no? Capable of enough love? All I ask of you is to throw the spotlight on that, rather than on plastic christmas trees and electric stars. Illuminate.

Love is not a four letter word,

K.