My train of thought on this ten-minute little oddity. Didn’t know what else to do with it, so rather than letting it become space trash by space monkeys on space typewriters, I put it here.

I wrote this because the weather today struck me. Then I realized it sounded like a Heian-era court lady describing her lovers. Then that reminded me of Inara. And I added more, making it more appropriate to her. I have a lot of crazy theories about how it got written, like River snuck in and wrote this in calligraphy across her desk, helping her understand herself (which isn’t too strange, considering the original shooting script of Serenity)....

-----------------------------------------------

He reminds me of spring, and I am pleased.

Or rather, I am in love with the seasons themselves: I am in love with Spring. Genuinely, for he is gentle and true, his is warmth that neither scorches nor leaves wanting.

Summer exacts too much of a weight—a heavy heat. Intoxicating, yes, but languishing, taking me for granted when he himself is limited—yet promising endless days. And nights. As if I will burn out before he does. Most pleasing to the senses, most troubling to the memory. He gets the smiles that I will never have, the true ones, like velvet.

Fall is a pining away, a premature mourning. The new chill that promises beginnings, but only after interminable, innumerable endings. Keeps a mask on, like spring in reverse. I can’t stand that, the teasing. Or the broken letters, fragments of emotions that cannot be wasted on something that won’t last. Or the idolizing of this lamented love after it’s flown.

And Winter’s love, wild and exciting, constant, can be harsh and cruel. There is no law with winter. A caress can be light in its intensity, words can strengthen, a gaze can hold in amazement, but it can also pin, and crush, and destroy. But he is so beautiful and unreserved, we are drawn like moths, burnt in the laughing flame. I believe there is no soul in winter.

But in Spring, there is only t