On love, the wind chill, and the sun

I had forgotten how it feels, how it felt. I once wrote about the jealousy and haphazard of any common relationship. I raised my voice in contempt and laughed at those holding hands and smiling despite the growing spite in their hearts. I take that word back, for now I comprehend it may very well not be spite but plain fear. Fear might be looked-down-on, diminished, scorned, said to be an illusion, yet as vacuous as these words of mine seem I dare call it, more than anything else, essential as to no primal emotion has brought as much ill, or as much splendor to those who act upon it fear. Sad as this reads, not even love might carry such importance. Sickly as we are, treacherous as we sometimes become, afraid of chance as we lay, we hope for the sun not for its blessings, but for the black fate we believe the cold wind shall bring. I do not laugh now, you see. I rub my hands and once in a while blow in them trying to heat them up, while the drizzle and the chill gain on my wait. A hopeless wait since there is not a thing to be waited. And this all happens not to be wrong, savvy. Things are as they should. The wind is none but the wind, and the cold has no aim in creeping up my limbs, and the sole grey street is just a street among others in this weather. However, one sees it not, I see it not, so the world appears a darker place for a foolish reason. It is then when one may curse the sun for not being there, brushing my hair, caressing my skin, besweating my face. One shouts in silly might that so then the sun shall stay away because in absence one can fully understand how being lonely makes us strong. There is no pain if the source of it has gone, we tell ourselves, and we stupidly say it over and over inasmuch as we were once told that any sentence told a thousand times is undoubtedly a truth. How could you say you have loved me, sun, if many a day you have left me in the wind to feel cold, we utter, while you hold somewhere else in your arms of warm sunlight? Such folly. Why must it glow overhead day in, day out for you to be comfortable in a bed of mirages? It shall all extinguish some day for them acts of nature all die some day. And regardless of you, this is how life is, because some day you shall also go away. The clouds up there open just a little, a ray of sunlight finds its way out, rumbles down the street and crashes itself against my left hand. Pure joy it is and nothing else, I think. I get up, drop my scorn and my angst, yet keep fear in my chest, and walk holding hands with the sun.