Comfort Seasons

I worry that the inevitable flow of summer, autumn, winter, spring acts like a comfort blanket of progress. Things feel different enough and so I stay the same. Same knitwear from years before, found discarded under the stairs, mismatched gloves and thermals from a family holiday in 2003. Never settling on swimwear. The summer struggle of unsuitable dresses. Battling with suncream sweats and unplanned rain storms. A birthday blissfully placed in my favourite month. It’s all substantial distraction rolling us forward into a new day, a new week, a new month. This Thursday is different from last Thursday because the trees are dropping their leaves and I’ve changed coats. Next week will be different again and I will move through time, ineffective, passive like a passenger on a moving walkway. Maybe this is all that there is. Maybe all there is, are the seasons.