Damn you, springtime.
With your resurrection of nostalgia and your horrendously rude rewinding back to a cold spring where I was naive and had no idea that the pathway of the world would ever be laid out for me with neat little footprints I could attempt to follow. Damn you and your painfully gorgeous weather, your flowers, your dew-laden daffodils and smells of cherry blossoms and budding lilacs and magnolias in the air that remind me of a time when I was happy, though I can’t quite articulate which time except I know that time was “romantic”, whatever that means; to me, it might mean that blue-skied day I first popped Ryan Adams’ “Gold” into my Discman and rode the bus, allowing this sickeningly beautiful sunny music fill my bloodstream with aching beauty. Damn you, Springtime for reminding me of that pain and all the palpable joy and pain that accompanied it before and after. Damn you, Springtime for reminding me of romance and how it always seems to arrive with the bright beauty of spring – the cool nights, the open windows, the flowers and rain and melting snow, blue mornings and marmalade evenings. Damn you, Springtime for forcing me to feel romantic again.