Cold. A brittle sensation, apathetic to wistful, woeful nature of a mind. Though my body walks forward, frost being crushed under my damp-infected boots, I am not there. My soul is subdued in the wilted trees, the wet swings that rust, unused... not that they are oft used during the summer anyway. But, on long-overdue, scarce sunny days, the swings have life. On those days, they can sneer, for they know their worth, and we the people do not. Congealed groups of teens, young adults, adults and - possibly, just possibly - the many elderly folk that fester here still swing in December, but only when intoxicated. Only when their minds are divorced from themselves, are they able to, once more, fulfil that almost-innate, childish yearning. When the other seasons have spent their performance, and their rarely-witnessed ghosts dart across the dew's muddy glaze, waltzing wrongly do those corpses of childhoods come out in the early dark. The other seasons do not stop them, they are too caught up in their clumsy movements. They never learnt how to dance, that or the stillness of the town affects them too. Perhaps that is why December is apathetic, it drowns in its own melancholia... it, too, is smothered by a peevishly jealous lover upon their wedding sheets, by the abstract death, the spectre of emptiness that haunts this frozen town. I walk on, a pilgrim without a holy land.
Various scarves, uniquely knitted yet homogenised in their form, wrap themselves around the people here. Four years ago I may have smiled towards the faces that they shelter from the cold, but now, now I avoid their eyes. I stare at the grey of the concrete instead, or the muted beige-orange of the bricks. I know this people far too well for my own good. She voted leave, he's transphobic, she's racist, and he's sexist. December brings out the spite in us people. In December the year has reached its tail's end, and we follow suit. We snap due to the cold, and bicker - sometimes with just cause. But we do not vocalise these bickers and snaps. We do so often do so in our minds instead, to our external minds, our friends, those near to us. I am guilty of this too, but I implore you to not blame me, but to blame December. Round here, the darkness lures out the wolf which boy's cry about. Round here, the daylight is populated by those more lethal creatures. Four years ago, I would not have cared about these creatures that hide behind their magenta scarves, and pastel, cashmere cardigans. But that was before the vote, that was before I knew any better.
I reach the sludge that is the field, the rec. I have walked past that water-clogged terrain my whole, young life, but I do not smile at the wisps of memorise that dart past me. In December, I beg forgiveness from the slumberous trees, yet I beg silent deities, and quiet giants. Though they have witnessed many a-winter, though they passively observe the rain which masks itself as snow, they cannot answer my prayers. They do not wish to perhaps. Have they not seen enough tragedy? Are they not witnessing their own demise? Yes, they are. I am. We all are. Through the elections, through referendums, through the countless Conservative Prime Ministers they stand still, Lovecraftian Gods, unconcerned with such menial subjects. Whilst elderly folk, teens, young adults, adults, and children bicker, whilst we all scream out, red cheeked, and red nosed, the trees stay silent. Their lips are pursed. They have been sewn shut, by who? It does not matter. We refuse to unstitch them. We remain deaf to their poetic musings, to their ethically emerald philosophies.
As long as I have been here - which seems now like a fruitless eternity - the trees have been here too, and in December, they sleep. Perhaps without their watchful gaze, their quiet guiding, we fail to manage ourselves. As the year draws to a close, and this suffocatingly still, unmoving town loses itself with mathematical perfection, the trees sleep through it all. We cry about Brexit, and this curse of an election, whilst the trees achieve that easeful slumber that I so long for. As I yearn for December, I yearn for that soothing lethargy. Yet as I yearn for December to end, I yearn to wake from the cage of such suspension. I continue to walk, unceasing still. Even now, I still walk on.