Cold Sundays 

Good day, heathens. Oh how I’ve missed you all. Did you have a good week? If not, come into my arms and I shall comfort you. Everything is as it should be.

We live in a world that revolves around expressing freedom in its most inhuman of ways. Of course, the lot of you can take that however you please, but my heathens understand. They understand things you don’t. Things you will never comprehend in this life nor in the next and so forth. 

But amongst the chants of mixed signals, there are swift moments of remembrance. Peace that comes from reminiscing. The familiar things despite us never truly having recollection of them. Those strange fragments of the past linger within us during the most silent hours and rush over us like a wave from a dying ocean, one last sweep of life and seafoam before it tucks itself back into the folds of absolute chaos, unable to be found.

I miss those rushes of memory, heathens. They do not come to me when I will them to; they choose when they want to be seen. Perhaps it’s their very capricious nature that makes them so worthwhile.

Today and always I encourage you, my lovely heathens, to savor those quiet moments. The moments where you remember things, sensations, feelings that you’ve never felt in the entirety of your lives, yet are still yours. Hold those mysteries dear to you for as long as you can, let them brush your arms and ankles, your eyes and through your hair, because once they have satisfied their time with you, they will disappear without a single way to draw them back.



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