Humour? The winters hold no room for humour.
Winter is the season of romances and heartbreak. It is a season of pain and suffering. Of suppressed grief and unbearable losses.
It is a reminiscence of fond memories and ghosts of the past, a time to share warmth with our loved ones while we emote within the self.
Come winters, we usher in a new year. Why does the mercury dip so on the last day of December? From where comes the thick mist that envelopes the city? Or the harsh rains, heartless and cold?
The mists and the rains… are they a conscience? An innuendo of our promises not fulfilled and of our misdeeds forgotten by us as we, in oblivion, welcome the new year with resolutions that may soon be rendered meaningless?
Do we rejoice with a hope of driving away the gloom? And why do I find solace in the mists and melancholy?
Winters, cold and merciless, can strip away all mask of pretence, revealing the ugliness of human nature, to the eye that bothers to see.
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