Death of the Seasons

One of the most perplexing things about the end of summer, is that one has so much time to just stop and think. As I was sitting with my soy Latte outside today, the richly dark taste of my delicious vegan chocolate bar still lingering on my tongue, I found myself ignoring my worn copy of Frankenstein, and just watching the season slowly melt. The slight breeze that was dancing on my skin had that bitter twinge of cold that carries the leaves from the trees, and I was pleasantly surprised at the involuntary chill that ran through my blood. I have always found Autumn and Winter to be the most beautiful of seasons. The leaves are drenched in blood stained hues, that fall like burned love letters, a bittersweet farewell. The softly chilling breezes serving as a sorrowful last kiss. I have always longed for the sweet, heavy scent that is all encompassing during Autumn, the faint scent of death...wilt, and decay, a funeral pyre of the faded portrait of summer. There is nothing else like it in the world. The scent of winter is clean and stifling, and fills the lungs to overflowing with something like satin, cold and silken. It offers me something much more than the warming comfort of velvet Autumn, it calls to my soul of a beautiful watercolor in greys and shadows, and sings to me of a promise of redemption.

It seems that the soft fog that emanates from the winter sighs of parted lips is just a gentle character beseeching for a slight glimpse of the favor people shower on the warm embrace of the sun.