A Brief Recount of the Saga of Seasons.

Salutations, any and all who are reading. On the chance that you have enjoyed my eccentric writings thus far, I feel I must apologize for not having written anything at all, much less anything eccentric, for some time.

While at least ninety percent of the blame must fall to my own procrastination-Oh, how I despise its fiendish grasp-at most ten percent of it can be diverted to my newfound enemy. I feel utterly betrayed by this adversary. Previously, I had not considered him a friend, indeed I did not care for him, but his deeds have turned so foul that I now harbor an intense and burning dislike for this most villainous of senior citizens.

I speak, if you have not yet guessed, of Old Man Winter.

Oh, the cruelty of this immortal individual, who practices so many dark and terrible arts! How I shall forever dread his annual arrival from this moment on. It is said, and dear reader, I believe it, that the cane on which he leans is made from the sharpest and most deadly of icicles. It is said that his clothing is entirely created from the frostbitten skin of a donkey. It is said that his very eyeballs are hailstones, gazing upon the misery of those who are forced to endure his yearly reign.

Aaah, but Old Man Winter's appearance is but the most minuscule fraction of what makes him fearsome. A much larger part is comprised of his otherworldly abilities. When the sharp drop in outdoor temperature proves to be insufficient in supplying anguished cries of woe, he does not hesitate to send ice raining down from the sky, turn the water of lakes and streams to stiff, unwelcoming ice, and bury the innocent in massive quantities of snow. There are places where his empire does not reach. But in whatever area he is able, he will, every year, attack it ruthlessly.

For centuries, he went relatively unchallenged. But then, miraculously, a resistance was formed. A noble rebellion, made up of powerful indoor heating, resilient indoor plumbing, and my personal favorite, the marvel that is electricity. These wonders combined gave the grateful public virtually no reason to journey outdoors unless absolutely necessary, and hence, kept them shielded from Winter's vicious might.

But, as it has been told by Batman (May he fly for all eternity), opposition leads to escalation.

Old Man Winter grew stronger. Now, he has the....horrifying ability to shut down the power lines that fuel the things we once thougth kept us safe. And this, my friends, is what befell myself and my family for nearly a week. There are brave, chivalrous men and women who try their absolute hardest to repair the precious lines of power, whilst Winter bombards them with his cold, but these are but mortals. They cannot drive away the chill on their own.

For our salvation, we look to the coming of the beauteous, joyful woman named Spring. I cannot say enough about the sheer righteousness of this Season of Seasons. Flowing hair golden as apples, a laughing face that exhibits pure happiness and bliss, her virtuous powers of comfort and warmth succeed every year in driving away Winter's white empire. And she clears the path for her fellow seasons, the kind but strict elderly grandmother called Autumn, and the bold Knight of the Sun, Summer.

I await her return with great eagerness. May the defeat of Old man Winter come speedily, and may you all be spared as much of his cruelty as possible.
~He Who Writes in the Night.