i love the seasons. i love them dearly. they afford an opportunity for change. an opportunity for newness. there is a special delight in seeing new colors. touching new flowers. smelling new airs. there is a psychic explosion of sensuality inside me when the present season departs and the new season enters my life.

but. once upon a time. once. long ago. i lived in a country with no seasons. i did not hate living there. i loved it. i loved it so much, i didn’t notice the missing seasons. life was lived one season all year long. and there was nothing to think about. that was just how it was.

now. many years later. i think about that experience as though i was a victim. as though i was missing something, back then. i wasn’t. but sometimes memories bring with them a certain feeling of wanting to be the victim. just like sometimes they bring with them a certain feeling of wanting to be there again… doing it all over again.

today. there is the feeling of wanting to be the victim. poor me. i lived in a beautiful country with a beautiful landscape and beautiful people… oh, but… i didn’t have my seasons.

let me be the victim, then!
if that will feed something.
just for today.

i will be the victim.
i will be the masochist.
just for today.

i will sit inside
and think about
my no-season life

with self-pity.

and outside,
the leaves will turn,
and change color,

and fly away.