The days are growing colder as winter is fast approaching. The sun sinks lower and the days grow shorter; darkness begins to prevail. For some subconscious reason, I've always associated winter with sadness, though it has never carried some particular, unordinarily sad event. I know not whether I am part of the minority who considers it to be a time of sadness, or if it does in fact bear tragedy on its back.
          It is with a strange sort of irony that I resurrect this Xanga, as it was created in the spring of my life, it is now brought to life in the winter. And so I feel I have done well to begin this with a short discussion on the sadness of winter; after all, writers have associated winter with death for centuries. But it is with a strange resilience that I come back, a return to the familiar.
          Familiarity has proven itself bittersweet time and time again though. It is familiarity that leaves us clinging to memories of the past, to memories that are false to begin with but that we cannot seem to escape. We are erroneous in our belief that life was once as good as it was and I find a sense of comfort in that knowledge. Life was never, but for perhaps brief moments, anything more than it is now. It has always been a heart wrenching, heart breaking tragedy in which entangled hearts always kill each other and in which they rise up out of the depths of despair to once again become part of the idealistic theory of love.
           Yes, I called love an idealistic theory, because theory is all it has become. "I love you" has become such a common phrase that I have begun to consider making up my own feeling, one that would be love in essence but not in name. Regardless, idealism has turned love into a cliche, a feeling experienced by many, not once or twice, but 10s of times in their life. And every time one falls in love, one says "This is what love really is, before it was just lust," but each time it is just lust. Each time it fades into oblivion within months and the lovers must bitterly part, always leaving one wallowing in self-pity. But people remain adamant about their feelings of "love" despite their better reasoning. (Love, in this context, deserves much more than just quotation marks. Were it a person, I would've sentenced it to the death penalty.) I know I have made the same faults as others. I, as a person like the rest of you, have the same vices, and have used the word out of its proper context. But it is in Winter that one realizes that it is worth so much more than misuse. I have felt it, I feel it now. I feel it despite that fact that its unrequited, and I will probably feel it for the rest of my life. But I will love again, and I will get past this.
           "This is my December" as Linkin Park said. But my April is just a day away.