Non-fictional prose: "once upon a time, before the world ended"

I think, once upon a time before the world ended, there was a point where I didn't hate summer. Where a sudden preview of the season in late winter -- before spring had even bothered to poke her head shyly around the corner -- didn't cause me to give in to my own rage and hatred of what was to come, what I'd doubtlessly have to endure for seven months. The roar of a sub-par window rattler aircon, the raising power bills to go with it, the rage of being trapped inside a tin can against my will and better judgement, with nowhere else to go and nothing to do. I'm sure there was a time, once upon a time before the world ended, where that thought would have made me laugh. Summer was no more my jailer than any other season, even if it talked rougher and acted tougher. There was a time when I wasn't afraid of it.

Wasn't there?

Memories are becoming paler and more diaphanous as the days go on. Today, the anniversary of the end of the world, they're almost completely transparent, they're so see-through, but I suppose they had to be, if I wanted to survive. Longing and grief can kill; my own already soddened heart avoided those particular tsunamis by making all that was good dreamlike and strange, like the past had happened to some other girl, not me.

Sometimes, they gain clarity and solidity, when the pain becomes too knifelike or the death-drumming of rain on the roof is too loud or I can't turn in a circle without knocking something off what I have to pretend is a desk, ruining plans, spilling wine. Sometimes they return to my mind in pure 4K technicolour, Dolby surround sound, and I remember: a woman I loved. Because I did love her, once. Once, I loved her fiercely, and I believed she herself could love -- even if she was afraid. It would come eventually. I just needed a little more time. I believed, wholeheartedly, that it was something nothing in the world could ever be able to take away from me ever again.

And then the world ended and all time ran out. It doesn't pass anymore; it either crawls like a wounded soldier in the underbrush, or disappears from in front of my eyes like the afterthought of a firefly. But then, I suppose all bets are off in an apocalypse. All you're left with that could be considered definite is the bone-heaviness of regret, the soft simmering of inept hatred, and a horrible rosé that tastes even worse than the sale price you paid for it.

One day, I will stop asking how it ended up like this. One day, I will stop wanting an answer. One day, I may even stop expecting one.