The Four Seasons

A light coat of snow embraces its surroundings, leaving a stinging, cold mess in its wake. (A catastrophe.) The truth of your words, hollow and mechanical, is just like this dusting of snow. Being a cold, cruel person can only last for so many agonizing months. It's a lot like the 'winter' season. You're dead and cold—impenetrable.

A gentle breeze brushes through the trees, tickling them as they giggle mercifully. (A smile.) The weather is nice, and the sun shines down on your favorably. How can you be so nice to those that don't deserve it? (You yourself included.) Things blossom, grow, and feed on love, something that you're admiring greatly. The spring peepers in the distance are all the confirmation you need to know the season.

A bead of sweat trickles down your forehead, stinging your eyes. Sand is stuck between your toes, thankful to find itself a rather pleasant home. Your laughter is quite infectious, and no one can hate you, not even yourself. The sun beats down on your slightly burnt skin. You are so deliriously happy that you don't realize the pain. (An act.) It's so beautiful, a lot like the summer months.

A leave wistfully falls to the ground dead. Dead—just like you. Your eyes are glazed and hardened, possibly missing the warmth and growth of the previous season. Things start to die along with your personality. You hate that the weather is cool and unforgiving—like the season of autumn.