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why is it that’s the air is always colder when it’s warm outside? The warm air should be comforting, welcoming, soothing, even. But every time I move to bask in its yellow light, I am overcome with this chill. It’s unforgiving, painful, bitter. I sit alone, thinking it will provide me with company. It doesn’t. Instead, it leaves me with this hole in my chest, reminding me of all that I’m not or should I say all I’ve yet to become. I look around, trying to discern if I’m just going mad, or if everybody else has an imaginary friend that they don’t even have to imagine. Because it’s always there, yearning for attention and recognition as if it doesn’t spend all of your days sucking the life out of you. I suppose that’s just how it goes when the light of your life is complete darkness.