I’m a seasonal creature. I’d like to blame the obsessive-compulsive disorder, but I can’t very well pathologize every quirk, every tic. Some things are features, not bugs.
I divide my life in four, in twelve, in fifty-two: wherever I can see dichotomy, I milk it. It’s spring. Time to do Spring Things. Which are worlds apart from summer from autumn from winter things.
Spring things are birth and agency and everything we’ve missed through our snowy shackles. Drama and fluorescence and heady breezes signaling heartbeats ever faster. Sequins, absinthe, and naked extravagance.
Carbon Leaf, Celtic Woman, and medieval polkas.