hibernation

I always wondered what winter’s sleep really meant for animals, because with my childlike imagination, I naturally assumed that it meant they indulged in their dreams for a few months without opening their eyes once, somehow making it out alive without resources.

I thought of it as a state of semi-consciousness, being physically there - the ‘there’ being a bear’s cave, a turtle’s nest, or West London in my case - as the only tangible trait. 

[…] felt like a never ending state of hibernation. It almost felt like I got stuck on a waterslide that never fell into the ocean, a roundabout that had no exits, a lift that never stopped dropping. Like a diabolical labyrinth, except you held Daedalus’s chalk instead of my hand.

It was like an airplane without a destination, simply flying without any plans to land, even though it did occasionally show me heavenly views of tangerine skies, a glimpse into a future that never could be. Clouds so soft they would collapse under the tiniest amount of pressure.

Waiting for you was like a savage crawl through the desert with only a single drop of cold, icy water to find it’s way to my heart every time I was ready to give up. A single drop of hope to keep me from opening my eyes to the moonlight shining in. Ignoring the alarm clock for my final few moments of ignorant peace. A moment so euphoric it stopped me from pulling my weight on the plane door. Sacrificing cabin pressure for momentary peace of mind.

Yet every bear wakes up from their deep hibernation. Fighting my way through, following a trail of stale breadcrumbs and thorns as my palms bleed. The Minotaur to your King Minos, deplorable as it might be, I hate to inform you that I am awake now.