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The Seasons Change, the Year Goes by Misunderstood.
Personifying natural forces is nothing new; let's twist the seasons —and add a tiny political angle.
Spring is a naive teenager, idealistic and up in your face. How much energy is required to overcome the inertia of the cold? She riots in the streets, hit by pepper to the eye, she radiates out warmth: thawing the snow off the ground with the best of intentions. Laying all the decay of stagnation bare.
Summer, the cruellest of all. Cloaked in sunshine and crisp white designer. She watches the bull markets — smiling as Fat Cats get fatter, the hoards march upon white steps. The days are longer, burn the skin and trickle the growth ever upwards.
Autumn the season for madness — let the demons look on as Summers excessive productivity withers on the vine. Pushed too far. Lets retreat into our privilege in ethically made artisanal, sustainable shells of wool and tooled leather.
Winter is an older lady. She’s kind and invites you in for tea and soup. Always an advocate for a nanna nap, minimum wages perhaps? A rest from all the compulsory growing. The urge to hurry home for the longer nights, the urge to hug your blankets closer, not burrow too much on the mortgage.
Only to tip the circle again.
I’ve read many stories where the seasons are personified; this happens a lot in fairytales and things. However, I always love wintertime best and have a tiny grudge against how winter is always the bad guy in the stories. So this is my version — the events of our times precipitate our own fairytale characters — these are the seasonal ladies of our political climate.