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August isn't defined by a burning of summer heat. It's tranquillity. The calmness of light as the trees listened to the rising of the sun. Birds singing in the morning. The air cooling at night into a pleasant warmth, a temperate that kissed your skin softly. The air smelt fresher with the last of elongated days. It was gentle, there was no description to fully encapsulate the beauty of the last month of summer other than simply: golden. That everything was illuminated by the magic of the sun's embrace. There was something she found comforting about its mellow personality.
The peak of Summer was too extreme, it screamed in your face. Demanding to be felt. Scolding sun hitting skin, it's touch burning. Winter matched its intensity. Freezing winds - cold pinching hands. Biting with its harshness. She liked the transitional seasons. The months of mixed weather - trying to decide what it wanted to be. Light showers with bright skies. Never one thing at once, wanting to be everything. To be the heat of summer and the dreariness of winter. It settled into a pleasant compromise of both. A modest mildness, never reaching ferocity. It was meek with its climate.
October was what she hated. She was the intensity. She was the earth brandishing weather so it could be heard. She wanted attention, to be seen and felt. She didn't think about if she burned people as long as they felt it. That she couldn't be ignored. Her brightness was good-intentioned but it was scorching - it was beautiful from far away. All she cared about was being memorable ignoring the violence of her actions. She was crashing waves and rough waters. She wanted the be gentle, she preferred it.
She always used to count the seconds between the sound of thunder and the sight of lightning. Letting her know how close it was. She always found storms comforting, she liked the danger. Something so beautiful about the excitement that made its fatality seem worth it but no one ever willingly steps out into a storm. Being struck was hard to recover from - often deadly. She liked bad weather - 'ugly' weather. Maybe she pitied the bad reputation it gained or she just related.
October had always been an Edgar Allen Poe fan. She had a literature degree, of course, she liked him. Always an author's words circling in her mind. She was currently thinking about one of his specific quotes: "All suffering originates from craving, from attachment, from desire." How it hurt that she wanted to be soft so badly. That she was loud and valued excitement. That she wasn't a calm person. Crashing bangs and colourful daggers of electricity. She was fun to watch as an observer. The wildness entertaining to view from the safety of behind glass.
She didn't know if she liked relating to poetry or not. If it made her feel seen or fake. Like she was a collection of words written by other people. That she wasn't original, that everything she had felt had been felt before - often stronger, more passionate. That even her feelings, which were stolen, were mere fractals of others. Wanting to feel that power that overtook every inch of your being. She couldn't devote herself to feeling that much - she couldn't be one thing. She didn't excel at having one trait - she was made up of many things, not one thing defining her entirely.
