Renewal, in the North, is a long arduous climb. We scratch at the walls of our caves, half-blinded and gasping. There are no colours to revive, no palette to refresh...every year this world reboots from a vacuum, from the greys and the browns and the deathly hush of winter. Wild-eyed pagans rush towards the sun, washing cars, throwing Frisbees—oblivious to the desolation. We live of hope, secure in the knowledge of a coming explosion—greens and purples and yellows filling our thoughts in anticipation.
End light. An inverse metaphor of spring.