There is nothing magnificent about spring in February. It is supposed to be white wherever the eye can reach, but instead I hear birds chirping and singing as if winter left for good.
It did not and I fear its recurrence. I fear that the assurance of something is about to be wiped away by sudden and subtle routines. As if the world is reminding me that nothing is certain and that weather is nothing.
It is not just this fake spring. I resent winter that is not cold. I resent to be thought about things in life and than be faced with completely different reality. I hate wet summers. I hate fall that is hotter and more sultry than any desert’s climate.
I don’t want to look out my window and see butterflies and bees and birds and lizards and cats and dogs and a baby-blue sky and then go out just to be chilled and caressed with an icy breath of wind.
I want the warmth that is invoked in me to be reality. I want to see and feel summer when I leave the walls of artificial certainty. I want the cold to be real when I go out to play with snow. I want the feeling of being alive to flow trough every vessel of mine as the only fuel. When I lift my head and shake off my day dreams, I want to know that something was as right and truthful as death is.
I want to know that I did something, built something, felt something undisputed, genuine and graspable.
So please, stop giving names to the vague weather outside. Stop making me pretend that spring arrived while I still have my winter coat on.