rollercoasters in winter

Life is a rollercoaster and I'm getting nauseous.

I'm tired of the twists and the turns, the loops and the lurches, the soaring heights and the sudden drops. I'm weary of the unexpected, of surprises lurking behind blind curves, of unknown destinations hiding behind hills and mountains. The tracks are only straightforward in the mirror of hindsight; my past exists only to haunt me and taunt me with visions of unreachable futures.

There was a time when I felt more in control, more like a driver than a passenger, more like an engineer of my own destiny than an artist sketching the wreck of my life as it sinks in flames. I lived enthusiastically, throwing my hands up to the wind and howling with delight as my body was flung left, right, up, down, and side to side. I enjoyed the thrill of the unknown, and each new dawn brought novel promises of laughter and wonder. Mornings were times for motivation and creativity, nights were times for merriment and festivities. My friends rode beside me on the rollercoaster, and the sky was always full of cheering voices and joyful screams.

But more recently, I've begun to feel like a wild animal. The rollercoaster is a ride of survival, of breathing, eating, sleeping, fighting, and engaging in primal acts of desire. My life feels as though it's been stripped to the bones by mourning rain and bitter winds; time has scratched the colors off the cart and erased the theme from this ride. All that remains now is a rusting track of metal in the sky, supported only by brittle towers that threaten to snap each time I pass overhead.

The difference between living and surviving seems to relate to what it means to be a human. What differentiates us from other animals? Are the philosophers right when they claim that our reason and rationality sets us apart? Or are the poets and artists correct when they capture our emotions in vibrant hues and lyrical words? I think I am inclined toward the latter. Living implies some sort of additional flourishing, some amplification of existence, some enhancement of life. Surviving is bitter and determined, reminiscent of a history of humanity covered in bloodshed and fire.

When I live, I am full. My chest teems with emotions and I have no trouble finding beauty in the world. I am creative and caring and motivated and driven and brave and I seize the day, I seize my fate. I draw and write and sing, and I feel happy and proud of myself, and I feel as though I am enough and as though I am worthy of love. I laugh often, filling my time with friendly faces and interactions. Even when I sit alone, I am not lonely, because I am alive and I am grateful to be alive. I am aware of the sheer improbability of life and the extraordinary combination of factors that aligned perfectly to allow for me to exist. I exist for something, my life means something, there is more to my experience than I could ever know. I know that I have time to achieve everything I want to achieve, and I know that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. I am not afraid of the future, because the unknown means new adventures, new opportunities, new versions of myself. I am content. To live is to bask in the warmth of summer; the trees are ripe with fruit and wildflowers are blooming in the mountains.

Survival is my winter. All the leaves of autumn have fallen, orange turning to brown turning to rot. All the honey-dipped memories of summer are faint whispers of an unimaginable past, all the fresh flowers from spring have long since atrophied away into dust. Snow covers everything, a blanket of blinding white silence and solitude. The trees are bare and everything is much clearer, much sharper. My goals have narrowed into one: survive. I put one foot in front of the other, eyes fixed on the horizon, knowing that a brighter future lies ahead, but this knowledge does not transform the present and I am still left wandering alone in an icy and barren landscape.

I am in a period of survival, but I know this season will pass and I will live again. I know I'll relish the warmth of golden sunlight and praise the distant twinkling of faraway stars. I know that the rollercoaster will be redecorated, renewed, and I know my friends will sit beside me again, laughing, yelling, loving.

But for now, I sit alone.