When seasons change and the scorching heat of Summer gives way to the clear light of Fall, when the loud random noises of unwatched television shows and afternoon sundry leaf-blowing give way to the quietness of bed, when the painful numbness of the hopelessness of everyday life gives way to a purpose or at least a pattern, when the large pet dogs on their leashes forced to walk at their owners’ will pant  on the pavements with their tongues hanging out but no longer seem to mind the heat so much you realize that seasons can change.

Such as now, when Fall is coming blowing away the last wisps of Summer.

Perhaps Summer went by so fast that you can’t remember that it came. Perhaps you’ve spent so many Summers on the planet that you can’t even clearly distinguish one Summer from another ten years ago. Perhaps you had kept aside a lot to do this Summer depending on the season’s bounty as you do every year but it left you on the sidelines of its path as always. A lot that you had planned to do is still left undone.

Yet, when there is a nip in the air in the mornings and suddenly all the colourfully clad people in the trains don brown and beige jackets heralding the black coated, booted armies getting on and off the commuter trains on the clock in the ruthless winter (about to freeze us to death in these parts), you still hope for the future.

Because change is hope. Change means possibilities. Change means a difference from what is now and that is enough for many.

For now. Until the next season leaves many by the wayside desiring more.

Yet, the change of season is also about assessment and acceptance.

Perhaps there never was a bounty nor ever will be. Perhaps it was just about learning, yet again, that life is under no obligation to be perfect. Perhaps Summer came, and left with the same desires in its wake as it had at its inception, marking neither a beginning nor an end except in our minds.

Yet, satiation is death and desire is life.

Perhaps incomplete desires keep the seasonal cycles spinning. And so the imperfection of a good enough Summer was the perfection of the workings of the whole cycle of seasons.