spring

hints of green weighing the branches down, waving quietly outside the window. grass spotted with little white flowers, like scattered snow that never melts away, that will last till autumn comes. and the sun hangs high above caressing everything gently, like a mother's hug, like that comfort pat on the shoulder. the air is crisp and fresh and smell like spring - if it had a smell - but winter has not gone for long yet, not in this country where it leaves a trail of itself until it returns again, as if it had been pushed out of its rightful place, as if it resented the idea of changing seasons, as if it was overly possessive. or spring could be a facade, a mask, a play, an act, an illusion something not real, something that is nothing but false pretense, something to cover up that coldness, something that create hope and joy so to break them down again, something that makes people forget about their mistakes so that they'd do it again, something. really. it never really changes, only deliberately coalesces with our lives, and slowly we get used to it until we never know it is there anymore, until it becomes a habit, until it becomes who we are, until it makes us who we are. it's not really spring is it? there are times when the mask is not tight enough and it slips off a bit and the temperature drops and the shrilling wind carries the cold past and hit us in our faces; or like the sharp edges and corner of the glass table that we forget about until we kick it again; the impact hard enough to remind that winter is still here and it never really leaves.

that is, unless you fly back home.