Spring, the intermediary between summer and winter. A season of dualism, where lovers come out of their shells from the warmth of their blankets and the awe of historically romantic films. A season where two individuals stand frantically on the border between love and desire. The summer, a neighbour who stares possessively through timeless binoculars, noting frailties, of which it can prey upon under its tenure. For now, lovers remain untainted, witnessing the natural colours of earth being reared on the voluptuous spring terrain. The doting eeriness of winter, forced into the far corners of their mind. Human beings are habitual in the sense that they are easily swayed by beauty and allurement, shunning past comforts that were equally kind to their soul. Ungrateful to the familiar as it flirts carelessly with the inconspicuous. An epoch in which fantasy reigns, above passion, above tenderness, above the foundations of love and euphoria. This reality of decadence transmits across universal channels. A phantom in an era where human beings think with their organs, discarding the whispers of the soul. I speak as a transgressor. Or shall I say a victim of the modern age. Where the eyes of men are detached from their hearts. Where the mind is polluted with echoes of doubt. Of torturous confusion. How does one escape from this erosion of trust when your own being is in opposition? You drown in pleasure and lascivious behaviour to feel something, anything, yet not even a droplet of love can be found. Even this earth, it falls for the night and it awakens beside the day. An eternal struggle. Torn between the darkness and light. Between two natural phenomena. I ask myself this; why do you spend these precious seconds with a pen in hand, sending your thoughts off into the far realms of the mind like knights in the midst of war? What do you wish to find? The purest question is, what do we all wish to find in this chambered dome? If you have not unearthed the answer up until now, cease your readership. Love, gentleman. A vicious, kind love that is sustained through not only elation but calamity. A form of love where you hypnotically gaze at her divine presence as she rests in the soft hours of the morning. A form of love we have spent lifetimes trying to uncover, yet sink every time into the ocean of lust that has blackened our hearts and souls, transmuting men of fire, into men of ice. So, gentleman, do not stop in your efforts to reach this surface of saviour, for only then will you truly breath and appreciate this life in all of its splendour. Only then will you value the winter and spring, as the summer awaits crystal lovers with open arms.
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