I have met the seasons. They come every year, at the same times, like clockwork. And for some reason, they choose me to talk to.
Perhaps they are lonely. Perhaps they simply need a place to recount their thoughts, like a diary, and so they chose me. To this day, I don't know why. Perhaps there is a secret meaning to it all I do not understand, cannot understand.
I shouldn't choose favorites, but I enjoy talking to Autumn. He is gentle and his manners are soft, smooth. He is always polite, never intrusive, and he has a melancholy air about him, as if he is still mourning the passage of someone who died months ago. He muses about many things, and after I talk to him my heart feels slightly opened, like a flower whose petals are spreading to embrace the cool, gentle air. When I am with Autumn, I feel as if I grow wiser, as if I have opened the doors of my heart to the universe. I never grow tired of talking to him. If anything, he grows weary of talking to me. He can act almost as an aging man, pondering life as it passes him by.
Autumn is about change. With him, I come to accept the passage of time. When I talk to Winter, I feel stagnant. As if I am trapped in an ice floe, hidden from the sun and the stars. Winter does not muse. He is like stone, a statue that stands as a sentry, guarding castle gates against any sort of hardship or misfortune. Winter talks to me about Summer. He complains about Summer always, muttering in his brusque voice. He complains that Summer has too much power. That he steals the cold from the earth, which gives the life of the world a much-needed rest. He praises himself and hurls insults at Summer every day, and I barely find the patience and willpower to keep my ears open.
Spring is different. She does not moan like Winter, or ponder like Autumn. She is always busy. She comes to me and shares stories of the new babes in the forest, or the blossoming of the cherry trees, or the showers that drench the ground. She is full of chatter. And some days, I enjoy it. It takes my mind off life outside of the seasons, and pulls me into the beauty of nature and renewal. I can enjoy the stories that she tells me, and rejoice at every new bud that blooms. But on some days, her chatter grows tiring. Those are the days that the rest of my life weighs me down until I feel as if I am underground. I cannot and do not wish to see the splendor of Spring then, no matter how much she talks.
Summer is boisterous, and even more energetic that Spring. He shouts like a maniac from the roof of buildings, and he invites me to howl with him. He makes adrenaline flow through my body as easily as blood. We do not talk as much as go on adventures, outrunning thunderstorms and hurling ourselves into pools. If we do ever stop to talk, he tells me stories that make me burst out laughing along with him. He always laughs at his own jokes, and he praises himself as well, pointing out trees brimming with strong green leaves and congratulating himself after particularly rambunctious thunderstorms or sweltering days.
They are days I love being with Summer. My stomach aches from laughing and my feet hurt from running, but I feel alive. And yet, sometimes Summer fills up too much space around him. I have heard the other seasons complain of his actions, breaking through the bonds of his season to spread heat waves through Autumn, or stop the rains in Spring. And of course Winter has more than enough to say about him. When I ask Summer about these remarks, he just smiles and throws the question to the side.
Perhaps he knows what he is doing: spreading his influence across the world, converting all of the seasons slowly into images of himself. And perhaps people will be okay with that, for a while. After all, as I have found, Summer is like a heated disco ball, hanging in the sky and letting everyone feel its light and music; and many people, in return, begin to dance, and have fun. But as much as I enjoy my time talking to Summer, I cannot deny my love for the other seasons. Spring brings forth the first delicate warmth from Winter, coaxing birds to hatch out of their eggs and encouraging growth from the tiniest saplings. Winter is robust and strong, putting the world into sleep, cooling us completely. And Autumn--how can I forget Autumn? He is the one who leads you back to Winter, into hibernation, and in the process brings you gifts of color from the trees along the way. He is the one who calms Summer down. He is the transition from Summer to the heart of Winter. He is the one who takes you step by step through your life as you prepare for the next stage.
Summer might take them all away. Spring, Winter, and Autumn. Or he may drain them so that they are no longer what they once were.
And so today I take all the time I can to talk to the seasons. I breathe in their words and try to ingrain them in my heart. I do not know why they picked me to talk to. But I will make the most of it, before it is too late.
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