the river
A cold breeze caresses the cabin, two fragile people inside. Their arm keeps you warm, but they can't warm your thoughts, that is truly the worst thing about thoughts, people can't read them when you really need someone to be able to feel what you are feeling.
The arm no longer is a comfort in the bed, now the only thing you focus on is what happened. What you think of as your fault, what you think of as your doing, you're disgusted by yourself, the things you did, the many, many times you spent wasting time on these thoughts. You deserve it, you deserve to be thinking about it, this prison spirals down and down, a cold sweat rising inside.
You don't deserve them, they don't deserve to feel your panic, they care too much about you and you know it. You'll hurt them sooner or later, it's been years since you were that awful person, but we all know people never change, don't they?
The panic is at it's peak now, you have no choice but to get up and put on your coat, another night like this one. A look out the frosted up window shows that soft snow has started to fall, although it is turned violent by the wind which creaks and whines through the floorboards and walls. You look back at your comfort, they're still peacefully asleep, you don't deserve to come to them for comfort, it exhausts them, doesn't it? What have you ever given them? Love? A place to come to for peace? That can't possibly compare to what they give you.
You leave the room, the thoughts, the regrets and fears, they seep into your mind, into your blood, now it's a white noise in your head, soft whining and reminders of what you have done, how stupid, ugly, immature, pitiful you are. Opening the front door lets in a harsh, but blissful chill, as if you were just slapped by reality. This is now, worry about now, not then. Oh how this soothes your mind, the hands in your mind let go, but soon come back, digging in painfully.
Your shoeless feet dig into the fresh snow, it's cold, but that isn't what you are thinking about right now. The howling woods call to you, a place full of pure acceptance for you, for your horrible, horrible mind. Those feet of yours walk towards it, down the hill where the cabin sits, soon it is out of your sight, now there is nothing to see, just trees and snow, let it all seep in, let them hold you, lay in them, for they are all you have now.
Onwards you find it, though you find it doesn't bring comfort, instead a deep dread.
The river. It stands with the thinnest layer of ice on the top, easy to break through, a painful peace that bites. Those socks are now drenched, they are cold too, but as toes touch the frost ridden water, they become neutral, giving in to the frost. Next come the ankles, this is always the hardest part, it is truly cold, but you deserve it, and it starts to make the thoughts hide away in fear of the frost. Thighs, hips, waist, hands, arms, chest, shoulders.
It's hard to let go, it's hard to know that you are doing this, you know it's not what you want, but there isn't any other way, isn't there? You keep going, swimming slowly as the thin layer of ice breaks easily from your presence, only your neck is out now, but soon you find no strength in keeping it up, your head hurts, no longer from the thoughts, but rather from the pain of the cold.
Tonight, the claws of those thoughts have grabbed you, and so have the cold, are they even that different in how they harm you? One more thing grabs you, but it contrasts the cold by lifting you, high, high up. These hands make you think, think about what you are doing, you don't want this, don't you? You want your bed, you want to feel warmth, to keep on feeling, even the bad thoughts, even everything that you have to think about.
"we're going home."
