Seasons

He sat unruffled on the bench by the riverside. It was the last day of his journey of retrieval. From the chaotic dynamics of city life, to finding peace in the suburbs, the breather was one to be pondered about. It seemed strange at first, but his resilience in overcoming the shackles of life seemed to have reached a peak . As he looked through the grooves of nature, the summer sun guided him into a realm of epiphany.

He recalled crying in unison with the droplets of monsoon, trickling down while silhouetting his own tears. The melancholy of survival never seemed apparent until the seasonal hue agreed to it. He wondered how similar his emotions were to those of his surroundings. Ever changing, ever dynamic.

The cynicism built through agonizing acceptance of oneself, often gives way to a miscellany of emotions. He realised that he was caught in a loop throughout his life. A loop of similar emotions, with the void being of his inner demon trying to tell him that his feelings can be controlled. Lost in reminiscence, he cycled through the winter mist. He was travelling within his mind, too far fetched for his demon to catch his Oracle of realization. "Maturity does lie in the understanding of one's own emotions", he wondered.

Perched on the bench, it was riverside no more. He looked across the station as his train whistled into his newfound wisdom. He shook up, startled. Looking through the window of the train, he saw the bench, empty, unbothered. It struck him how that moment was for the bench to shift from its summer warmth to the autumn of realization. A realization that nothing ceases to change. His pupils dilated as his journey took him home, an abode of his enlightenment.

As he landed, he saw his friend waving at him at the station. Looking at his excitement, he wondered how he didn't feel exactly the same. It's almost as if he expected this reaction and hypothized about it. The range of human emotions cover a spectrum which tends to coexist for life to proceed. The calm anguish and mourning of winter has to cease to give way to the warmth of the bright summer. Life is a series of deja vu. The cycle never stops, nor do the seasons of rhythmic emotions. As he walked beside his friend towards home, he was already seated on his mental couch, wondering how amazing it would be to submerge the silence of denial, and lead everyone into the abode of acceptance of one's emotions. 

We often wonder why, but we never wonder how these emotions crawl out of nowhere. Why does she feel ecstatic while I'm in doom? Why does he breathe through realization while I lie in ignorance? It has never been a question, for this is the purpose of existentialism. We are a spectrum of intricate emotions and every turn in our route is the path to another season in the cycle, for a rainbow to form.

He rested, finally at ease, having read out his experience, to everyone who is listening at the very moment. The bench on his front yard waited for his contemplation at dusk.