What if we are like the branches of a tree, devoid of leaves as winter takes its first few victims? Will we ever grow past the frozen areas entagled in our viens? Nothing in our path ever seems to thaw out completely. This thing we dare call a we...suppose it's truly just a motion of hope, stuck in perpetual winter. There is no warmth, no means of escape. It's a challenge to foresee a future that isn't fixated on the "what ifs" of winter, when logical answers are only contained in Spring.

Spring was always my favorite season. Seemingly answering all of the unspoken questions that crowded my sanity. Maybe it was the soothing feel of dew mingling across the lawn that settled the nerves of my ever running imagination. Or the simple knowledge that Spring allowed growth after the deadliest of times. Spring was for cuddling up & gliding hands. There's something peculiar about a season of comfort & familiarity, trailing a season of doubt & bitter coldness. As if Spring was the solidarity force welding my pieces together once again. Unlike Winter, Spring allowed me to leave on a whim. Caressing my mind so that it could discern my desire to visit summer.