“To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.
— Oscar Wilde
Winter seasons are a weird thing. You wouldn’t understand it unless you did one yourself. You pack up your life and move it up to the mountains. You then fill this new life with new people, a new family which you live with and share things with, new friends – the best friends, work colleagues, cute boys. You grow into new routines, new things that you do every week like go for snitty on Tuesday, out to banjo Wednesdays, night riding is for Sundays and the other days are filled with work, full days boarding and nights spent with friends watching movies off the hard drive. Your life is now filled with norms, what you expect, things you do and the people around you. You know who the ‘locals’ are, who you expect to see around, who works here and who goes out where. It stays like this for a few months, a while really; differing with changing events, movie premiers, competitions, the school holiday rush, new people you encounter, different guys you enjoy the company of and fresh snow for powder days. You get closer to work friends, having to spend every day with them and soon staff parties are on. The life you left behind doesn’t come much into play, most friends from home don’t contact you and responsibilities such as uni are forgotten, so you’re left with what you have up here. This is it. This is life and all there is.
But next thing you know you’re having your last staff snitty burger and the days shredding with the crew are being counted down. You suddenly find yourself being torn away from everything familiar and your family and friends are all going their separate ways also. The winter life is falling apart one bit at a time as if being ripped into by a tornado and flung in all different directions. Your best friend and half your mates are going overseas while your other friends are going to work on an island or back home to the other end of Australia. Nothing is normal anymore, the job you once had no longer exists and the mountains are cleared of all the people and the stuff you all love, the stuff that brought you all here in the first place – snow. The house you called home is emptied and filled with another tenant, but I suppose that’s ok because this place isn’t your home anymore, nothing’s familiar anymore, no one’s here anymore and that’s it really, you’re left not knowing where home is anymore. It’s not there but it’s definitely not back where you came from. Things are different now. Home has been scattered all over the world and I have no idea where to go..
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sometimes I write to people once the time has already passed to tell them the things on my mind. to tell them what they meant and what they did to my life. how I felt. how I feel. once they’ve already walked out of my life. or if they're just too busy to listen any more. I write letters to people who will never see them, or at least know they’re written for them. maybe ill post some on here one day.
7.8.10
and after everything you've done and everything that's happened, you're all alone in the end anyway.
alone with no one even to talk to. and definitely no one who cares.
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