Spring...What Makes It Special for You?

[jimmydasaint]

Spring is here, apparently... I was just thinking about some moments from my childhood across the vast sea of experience and sentimentality that separates my present self from my past self and was thinking about what spring meant for me. However, only descriptive and dramatic replies please, which read like Hemingway or Camus. I'll be happy with one reply if I get it.

 

Waking sleepily from my bed, groggy, wiping sleep from my young eyes, I stumbled to the bathroom in my striped pyjamas, crumpled behind the knees due to sleeping in a foetal position. The frosted glass windows let the new sunlight through in crazy patterns as I gave myself a soldier's bath - crotch, armpits, hair and face. I straightened up my tousled hair and glanced at the small Woolworths mirror that my father used for shaving , and waxing his hair like James Dean, finished off with a pungent brand of hair cream; cigarette glowing red perpetually at the corner of his mouth to give himself a moody exterior (which matched his moody interior).

 

On reaching the local park, the lingering odour of jasmine and cypress filled the air around me, mixed with the hazy acrid car exhaust fumes from the local highway. A faint breeze tugged at the short sleeves of my T-shirt. Goosebumps appeared. The sun was pressing its light through the perpetual cloud that surrounded Glasgow, creating laser beams of sunlight that scanned small areas of the patchily, grass-covered ground for a moment, before moving on to the stone dykes on the periphery of the trapezial shaped park that marked the communal garden walls of the towering three-storey tenement monsters that overlooked the whole area. My friend, George, appeared from the distance dressed in his jumble sale best - a mauve-coloured T-shirt not helped by the undistinguished brown shorts he was wearing, contrasting with his grey, knee-length socks that he also wore to school. His scuffed dark shoes finished off a rather unprepossessing figure with a large head of curly, mousy brown hair and a slight overbite protruding from his top lip. He smiled faintly in recognition.

 

The clouds eventually rumbled away like a slow freight train and the faint sunlight picked up its energy to shine on us in theatre spotlight sizes. Each day of this weekend had endless possibilities- every possibility was golden. It was Spring.

 

(PS: I am not saying that I write like Hemingway or Camus, nothing I do comes even close, but that I would love to read some descriptive writing)

Edited April 2, 2011 by jimmydasaint