This will be part of a series of creative writing pieces under the title of Fluidity with little to no relation to each other, completed over an extended period of time.
She didn’t particularly like summer. No, what she loved was the cold chill of November sneaking through her coat. She enjoyed seeing her friends on a sunny day, or going for a walk in the heat just like any normal person. She would smile as her skin slowly but surely got darker and darker. She didn’t mind these things.
However, there was only one thing she truly adored about the summer months. There was a certain time of the day, when the light filtered carefully through her curtains around sunrise and sunset, when the clouds were like pulled cotton and the sky a beautiful cerulean blue. She would lay there, in her bed, and simply read. It gave her a feeling of such content that just couldn’t be matched by anything else. Sprawled upon her blankets, a novel in hand, with a cool breeze drifting through her hair, she would close her eyes and allow her senses to breathe.
She listened to the children playing outside. She twitched her nose and smelt the cooling embers of the neighbourhood barbecues. Focussing on the sounds around her, she found a new appreciation for the gurgles and shouts of small children in the street, smiling at their innocence and playful attitude. She concentrated on her skin, the way the bedsheets touched her arms and legs. It was during these specific times that she felt like she wasn’t just alive, but that she was truly living.
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