The smell of spring is a hearty one, it's full of things you'd never expect to rest upon your tastes with pleasure. It's that feeling you get when you've hurt yourself, but a scab starts to grow and heal inwardly out, all you've done is washed it clean with a bit of soap and warm water, it stings but it's the good kind. The kind that feels real. Today I didn't want to get out of bed, I put my pillow over my head and wondered if I could just stay right here for a little while longer, if everything would be okay.
There's a woodpecker outside my window right now, he's in a heavy tree hanging above the garden (the one I thought was going to fall last time we had a storm and it was covered in sheets of frozen rain). He doesn't seem to care too much about everything else, and I wonder what it feels like to use your head as a battering ram and never fix any problems. The wood probably smells good too, a small release of sadness in the air.
I always forget what the air tastes like after it rains for days and suddenly the sun is shining and the sky couldn't be any more blue. It reminds me of a huge store window that never looks dirty, until you see it right after it's cleaned and you see how much you've been missing. Sometimes I think I'm like that, a little bit messy but you can't really tell, until part of me is washed clean and you see all the mess you've been breathing into your lungs.