The Seasons

There is some measure of peace to be found in the changing of the seasons. Bleak white winters that burn the eyes with white fire. The fall unleashes a utopia of colours in the leaves of the trees; hues of red, yellow, and orange dance in the air as the leaves fall from their life perch. Neutral comfort and subjection to subtle truth stimulates my composure: insignificance… hate. I press my prior thoughts. How leaves except their demise atop the earth in the open air, when we humans proceed to bury our dead six feet under, just in case its windy. I laughed at human simplicity and ridiculousness.
 They represent only death, and yet what we see is autumn. Spring, traditionally recognized as “rebirth” in literary terms; when the ices of winter fade away and we are left only with life. Small streams run and cross, like a network of veins upon the face of the earth, as its heart once again beats, shacking away the cobwebs with slightly greyer eyes. People, pale and frightened, emerge from their houses as the sun promises reprieve, if only for months.
 Rejecting technology meant sticky, blistering quell of summer. When all the world seemed hot, destine to cook our skin. Thoughts of electrocution and blue-rare steak slap me in the face. Searing skin. Should my body temperature climb high enough, how long before the blood within me rose up and filled my eyes with red? I imagined the pain would be to great that if it occurred, my anguish would be too extreme for me to record the statistics.
 The seasons…
 Inspire emptiness in their midst, but upon the changing it is refreshing and forgiving. Chaucer must have been cold at least when he wrote half of the Canterbury Tales. Cold stone and cold flesh and quill. Chaucer probably had ‘mad’ bitches, as they say. I wonder if he had any type of lifestyle like the deeply homosexual Italians of Florence and Sicily in the fifteenth century? Who cares…
 Corey Taylor is yelling at me. The piles of work layer my desk, and I wish for nothing more than to wrap it up in a tidy bundle with string, and write in large, thick letters on the top: BULLSHIT. But such as this mind rejects outward intuition, I know myself better than anyone, and worse than none. So I’ll do the work, but not tonight, and trust that they meant what they said.
 Too many hours sitting hurts the spirit as much as the body, but how quickly we forget when after standing for five minutes after sitting for three hours, that we sit down happily when offered a seat. Somewhere, at some point in history, sitting was culturally incorporated into our daily lives. When all hope is gone, someone will need to mend the world. Will it be those who sit, or those who stand? As far as the seasons go, we can sit and stand until the seas rise far above our tallest buildings. Some will likely still be sitting when it happens. But lets pretend we not at the end. The end is final, thus we are not there yet, and amidst the chaos we pour into time solving this final end, some breakdown and sit while other, cramp-legged and blue-balled, remain standing. Chaucer would have a thing or two to say about that.
 A bulbous man passes me on street, above his dry, swollen lips, clung a rogue blotch of mustard. I observe his gluttonous, reckless figure and balding head unscathed of the sun’s warmth. I nearly vomit.
 Clenching my jaw and knuckles, I jolt my head to the left in a snapping motion and tense my legs. Too often this heart forgets passed purging and fucking remedies.