Lusting Seasons

After almost 22 complete years, my psyche has grown accustomed to certain life staples. Indeed, every night I scrub my teeth, when my nails become obscene (or hopefully before), I trim them to desired length. I eat often; sometimes four times per day, and as I've become more of a man, I've had to shave the hairs on my chin with some regularity. One thing, however, of which I had not realized the cyclical importance, is the changing of the seasons. For almost 22 years I have witnessed the summer green slowly fade into the colors of the fiery fall and have felt the summer's gentle breeze take on a sharper, harsher nature. The evenings are punctuated by brilliant tapestries of deep reds, fading purples, and suprising oranges--both on the ground and in the heavens. People shed their short pants for more substantial clothing; a soft and durable hoodie becomes the desired choice for day after day of trodding under the falling leaves, which have lost their summer grip to the biting breeze. Sandals can still be worn, though one runs the risk of cold, wet toes, thus needing a spray to unattach the leave particles which will undoubtedly cling to the skin. Coffee at sunup, tea at sundown, Sigur Ros, a good book, and tossing the pigskin in between. I'm not sure if one can lust after a season, though I find myself desperately close to that reality. Indeed, the transient seasons (especially fall) have always given me something I didn't know I needed, an unknown cyclical necessity, providing inspiration in change. All for now.