The Sun.

I lay lazily on the floor while the sun shine against my face, the warmth caressing my face. The cold in my heart lapping up the delicious warmth of my skin.

I read underneath the sun, as though the warmth of the sun can cushion any impact that the stories are going to throw in my direction.

I touched my skin, finger tracing the little freckles that graced my skin over the years as I frolicked under the sun with no sunblock. They feel like any other part of my skin, except they tell the tales of the sun.

I remember the sun at 3p.m., giving me countless of burns while we ran around the courts. I remember the beauty of the sun at 6 p.m., blazing the earth to orange.

I remember the sun rises, the sea water refracting the light. The cold splashes of the sea water tickling our feet, while we waited for the embrace of the sun.

The way it felt like home when I see the sun lighting up the corners of the house. I felt embraced when I return home to see light in all corners. The warmth of the sun, always signify the possibility of happiness to me. That no matter how grey the skies are, the warmth from the sun will return once more, and happiness can be again.

So when I am sad, I seek the sun. I find corners with sunlight and lay there, taking in the warmth.

I take in the warmth and remind myself, perhaps, it isn’t so bad after all.

I can still feel the sun, the warmth.

The hope.

The audacity of hope.