April hits me in the face like a ton of bricks.
Is that the expression?
I actually don't know how April hits me, but it does.
Bright white sunlight touching everything like winter didn't happened.
The impertinence of life in spite of death.
Why do flowers keep blooming?
Why do trees and weeds and moss continue to grow?
--Because they don't care, because life doesn't care that you don't believe in it.
It believes in itself.
This display makes me very uncomfortable.
Spring makes me want to cry and shout: What about finality? What about surrender?
Let me hibernate and don't be pushy April.
Let the delicate pleasures line up one by one, let me handle one at a time.
Let me see my boys wearing sandals and playing outside.
Let me stroll hand in hand with my family and go somewhere without having to be there.
Let me write about the wind until it dies down and no longer moves the tower of my confidence.
Be my friend April.
Please move slowly.
Hearts sometimes have a hard time gripping the road and taking turns.
Hearts are not always good at carrying heavy weight.
Every April I want to die and be born, and every April I want my brother to come back.
April hits me in the face and in the heart.