I like seasons.
And I am trying to live more fully in them. Not longing for ones gone...or to come.
I do not want, anymore, to feel a certain feeling (which I manufacture) which is the sense of being penultimate. Of being in some purgatorial stage of almost-being, almost-having, almost-arriving. That this is the next-to-last and the next one is It. Is defining. Or worse: did I pass It without noticing?
What contentment is found there? None. No, no. You won't find it there. Because it doesn't live there, in that some-other-place
-- and neither do you.