As a broody and morose young woman with a rather unconventional fascination with tales of tragic horror and sickening melancholy, it is expected by society that I must hate spring. My friends and I are writers who dress only in black and gather in the parking lot of the local movie theater under cover of darkness to discuss how the sole person in the universe who has ever understood us is Steve Morrissey. It was on one such day that an acquaintance of mine confessed that she would mourn the passing of winter, a none to melodramatic statement of course. I agreed with her, for I too enjoy winter and the way the sky is dark and the air is almost as bitterly cold as my whip-like sarcasm. But then, she further clarified that she loathed the spring, as that was when the clime is wet and summery, and the colours are rich, and perhaps worst of all, the people leave there homes and pass the time outside, soaking up the flowery aroma and the sun’s radiance. She claims that spring does not inspire her. But if spring does not inspire one as a writer, than how can one be a writer at all? A true author does not merely focus on the dark and dismal aspects of life, but the vivid and spirited elements as well. Spring is the time when the animals awaken from their slumber and the trees come alive. It is the time when parks and outdoor marketplaces become the bustling beacons of human interaction. If one professes dislike of spring than one has not experienced it as I have. I have touched the rose petals and rubbed them against my face, taking pleasure in their soft texture, their delicate beauty. I have climbed to the top of the leafy green trees and examined the eggs in the birds nest until their wrathful mother returned and pecked my arms before I fell from the tree, landing on my back, laughing madly, thinking about how I will describe this experience later in my notebook. I have ran upon the endless sidewalks along suburban streets, against the wind, caring not for whom sees, and felt a liberating rush of euphoria. I have laid on the thick grass at midnight, enraptured by the wholesome artistry that is the moon, feeling so at one with nature I could melt into the atmosphere. I have lived!
There is a poem, a story, in all things. Especially spring.