I'm beginning to wonder if all this snow is supposed to be a metaphor for my life. All my life I've had seasons, both environmental and emotional. There was always a winter, just as there were always happier days. Being able to confidantly anticipate a morning covered in snow was much like knowing, somewhere in the back of my mind, that a happier day would come. When it comes to personifying the seasons, winter usually gets typecast as the bitter depressive character...but in my world, the rare beauties in the winter landscapes always struck me as the ultimate optimistic presence. Just as with happiness, snow could come at any time and in varying strengths...but in my life I had been conditioned to KNOW that it would come eventually. This was a comfort I grew up with, and something that to this day I naively hold onto. So, with a heart hungry for December's embrace, I found myself in a land plagued by constant June. I was trapped in a land surrounded by summer, desperately hoping for even a glimpse of snow. As my melancholy grew and depression set in I began to accept that my life would be only summers from here on. But wait, what's this?? A fresh blanket of the most pure and perfect optimism, staring through my window's thin pane and telling me, ''we told you we'd be back.''

♥ ♥