The red apple

Man of another season

As the sun sets on yet another day, feeding the loop of beautiful eternity, a man stands against the sunset. His silhouette, bared against the fierce blaze of the dying day’s Sun, stands still like a painted shadow. He’s staring into the sunset. Bright crimson hues spill across the vast blue heavens like red wine over a fine table cloth, permeating its every fiber. Clouds dot this poetic scene, as if trying to fill a void.

Alive, oh so alive.

This is the man who ushered in the bitter cold winds of winter with open arms, prodding summer along like an unwanted guest. This was the man who yearned for the holiday cheer and the bright lights that fill the neighborhoods at night. This is the man who simply enjoyed the gusts of cold breeze, numbing his cheeks as he strolls through the frigid air. This is the man who sought to belong in the solidarity of winter. But as the winter clouds ebb away, and the frozen winds leap over the mountains for lands further from the sun, this is the man who has yet to find solace in a season. The warmth of summer has rejected him, and the frost of winter neglected him.

The sun’s final rays extend over the horizon, like a drowning man’s final attempts to grasp something, anything, to keep him from going under. He still stands there, hands stuffed inside his pockets, perfectly still, not a movement more. Year after year, these seasons approach him and pass him, leaving him with more longing than ever before. He is a person without a season.

Perhaps the season is simply this season. The season of now. To no longer be longing for things that don’t belong to you. When it is summer, grasp the free days and warm nights. In the winter, accept every chance to bundle up and head out to feel the kiss of winter on your rosy cheeks.

Perhaps the man is watching the sun set and pondering the lives of the people whom the sun is awakening now, as the sun leaves him. He wonders if at the other end of the world, someone will stay up and watch the sun fade, bidding it farewell, and think of his day beginning with the sun’s eternal ascent. It’s always morning somewhere. It’s always nighttime somewhere. It’s always summer, and it’s always winter.

Year after year, seasons pass. But ultimately, life is it’s own season. A season that encompasses all things, the joys, the pains, the tragedies, the comedies. Life is the season we cannot miss, for it is the only season we cannot afford to miss. Just as quickly as the summer sun freezes over to the gray of winter, and the christmas lights melt into summer festivities, the season of life will come and go, much too quickly.

Maybe I’m a man without a season. But I’ll find my way in life, and that way will be my season, come rain or shine, snow or fire.
My season is the time to live.


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