the (non)efficacy of the affair

i am summer born. there exists an unexplainable gravity towards those who are born in the cold months. the mystery of the darkness reflected upon their timid small movements, the scared and studying looks, the tightly closed door to keep away the fatal chills, are somehow beautiful in my sun-filled eyes. though the nature has its laws: those who dare to go forth naked and unprotected in such severe condition are doomed to freeze to death. perhaps there is a sense of euphoria, right before the life is sucked out of you by the cold, but the frostbite comes slowly, and takes bits and pieces of flesh at a time, limb by limb, whilst stealing each beat of the heart.

the sun is too high and too strong in my mind, and becomes a reason to falsely believe that there is warmth to be found in the dead of the winter, or that somehow the heat of my being, the warmth i can provide can magically thaw out the bitter frozen world of the winter and the early spring. but my bare skin and dilated pupils are not suited for those icy nights, and i get lost, frozen, hurt, defeated. summer also seems to last forever, and i tend to forget that the cold wins out at the end. and things that are warm; the things of flesh and blood, are most easily frozen and shattered into million pieces.

loving is a dangerous thing. perhaps frida knew this. she is a summer born three days apart from my own. diego is winter born. in the middle of the winter. the summer's passion comes with a high price-tag of suffering. or does suffering come with the passion for winter that is inevitably so intoxicating? i dedicate this contemplation for all summer borns who blindly, ceaselessly, dive into the frozen abyss of winter - and early spring - hearts.

"let sorrowful longing dwell in your heart. never give up, never lose hope. allah says, 'the broken ones are my beloved.' crush your heart. be broken."
- shaikh abu saeed abil kheir, aka nobody, son of nobody, excerpted from three cups of tea