Its incredibly beautiful here in South Korea at the moment.
Cicada's are buzzing, the dragonflies have hatched and look mostly awkward (with their large wings and lack of colour).
The leaves are bursting out of their branches and the flowers basking in the sunshine, enjoy the cool of the afternoon.
There is nothing like this feeling; it makes hope seem possible, joy inevitable and laughter...as clear as day!
I struggle to find sadness in my life; mostly because I hide it with Chocolate chip cookies and copious amounts of sweet coffee.
But the change of season makes reality hit like torpedo!
There is an Autumn, when you feel warm and romantic; and you live in a novel where you are the character with curly hair, with a wonderful collection of hats, who always does her thinking and diary entries beside a pebble bottomed stream.
Then Winter comes and you couple the hats with gorgeous scarves; the river has frozen so the desire to write and think is there, but put on hold. You become a myriad of questions, thoughts; somehow the stream helped with this.
You have no idea how this has happened and in your heart you know, but you blame the stream.
And like the pebbles at the bottom; all of you, remains frozen.
But with Spring, you feel movement and you run to the stream, and under the thin sheet of ice, there are fish swimming. They gently bump the pebbles and you feel...free.
Your spirit has awakened. You run back grab your book, your hat and your scarf.
I have not yet felt the summer.
But when I do I will write
>i<
The Human Seasons
By John Keats
Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man:
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring's honied cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idleness--to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
