Change The Seasons

Being a silent observer, you become more acutely aware of the things proceeding around you. Of how intricately interwoven, even the most basal of things really are. Cause and effect. Perhaps it's a time of discovery, perhaps this is it: a point to break through. Or recovery, from a momentary daze. It's like being drawn towards a vortex, an impossibly ineludible mass of sheer force, seeing everything that matters to you gyrating about while you seem enigmatically drawn towards this beautiful mess. And then you realise that you're simply standing still, you're just a silent observer. 

It's a beautiful mess of things. You watch as people stumble and pick themselves up, experience a sick wave of emotions, fall in and out of love, question and redefine their lives, become mere acquaintances to friends. You hear it when conversations ascend from superficial small talk to deeper, profound discussions that you really enjoy, you taste victories and bitterness at some point, and lastly you experience and feel the weight of the very wings that allow you to fly, with all of your soul. 

And this is the thing about transitioning from a stage in life to another, youthfulness becomes another luxury. You also start losing and outgrowing your silly little illusions. Oscillating uncertainly between the extremes, learning to anchor yourself. Yet while doing so, we constantly worry that we would drift off into oblivion, that we'll just be another stain on the fabric. For on this fabric exists an art so fine and abstract, that only time as an artist is capable of creating. 

And it's so easy to pale in comparison.