It is winter here, too. Not colder than Mars, but winter it is. You cannot force it to be as cold as something. Yet, we expect it to be cold, or at least cool, nippy. Sometimes, it gets warm. Is it only me? I don't own the season. It comes and leaves of its own free will, and behaves as it wishes to.
It is just a season that will change. Summer will set in. Again, we won't ask what summer should be like. We expect it to be humid, the air to weigh heavy.
A few months later, the air will rise and meet the clouds. We shall have rains. Another season that we won't voice our needs to, but expect showers from nevertheless.
Occasionally, like now, in a certified winter, I am experiencing heat and as clouds gather I imagine rain. My low and no expectations do not preclude that. The season belongs to everyone, yet what we take from it is also what we give it. We respond like it expects us to. But, seasons don't owe us anything.
It is way past bedtime, and I think about what bedtime really is. When we reach the bed, or when sleep beckons, or the time when we time it for waking up?
Covered with a blue shawl that shares my mood, listening to Rabindra Sangeet, I hum in a language I scarcely know...to winter, and as a winter...
Tobu mone rekho
"Yet, do remember
If I move far from here
Yet, do remember...
If I choose to stay nearby,
Unseen, like a shadow
Here for your descry