Friday, November 5, 2010

I imagine every season as its most ideal--the beginning month or so when the weather is novel and intense and exciting. This ideal manifests itself somewhat realistically until the season is left out on the counter, becoming stale, lukewarm, slushy, mealy. The first innocent warmth of spring becomes wet and damp; the loose, carefree days of summer become sweaty and tiring; the brisk, colorful days of September and October decay into barren shards of nature.

During December, during that first seemingly manufactured sparkling-mall-snow, even pieces of dog shit, frozen and glittering, seem magical. Rosy cheeks peek out of knitted wares. People give. People are refreshed. Large sheets of cheap plastic instantly become the best possible mode of transportation when traversing a hill.
And then February. My feet start feeling wet, cold, and itchy simply thinking about it.

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