Summer is a season of sound. And it's always my favourite. Music fills months with magic, making summer evenings shimmer and late afternoons sparkle, full of swing and jazz and sweet cider, of laughter and friends and fun. But it's not just music. The world thrums, with its own melodies; rivers ringing, trees humming, birds calling, suitcases rolling, friends chatting, kindness chiming. Storytellers add their tunes; fingers tapping on keys, pens scribbling on paper, tales dancing on ears. Slowly, it becomes a symphony that I adore every year.
In winter, the world packs up its melodies, leaving only soft silence behind. I struggle with it, every time. It has its beauty, a quiet time after months of sound. But it feels lifeless. Empty. Frightening. It suffocates, and makes every move uncertain, as the obsidian shrouds deepen. Concerts feel forced, choking winter's silence with cheery carols. Nature loses songs and chatter fades, birds fly south, and storytellers stop pens. Months drag on without dynamics, and I ache for them to start again. With its pianissimo nature, I hate winter, and always wish it had more sound.
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