From the moment I stepped out of the doorway, I could feel the chill in the air. The cold bite in the air that snaps at your heels once you are out. The cold bite that heralds the departure of Persephone, otherwise known as Proserpina, back into the arms of Hades. And the mourning of Demeter. What is she possibly doing now, I wonder? In this very age, what form does she take that hides her from the eyes of mortals? An old woman? Or an Alpha female somewhere commanding a legion of subordinates and teleconferencing with eight other CEOs at the same time?
But I digress.
In this place where I reside in currently, there is no spring, no winter. Demeter has no hold over this region of Earth. Over here, only Apollo matters. No disrespect, Demeter. Only the harsh winds of the monsoon, bringing torrential rains over this little island. But tis still cold enough to remind me of the time where I spent a month in a place under the influence of Demeter.
I have fond memories of that place. Very enjoyable it was. The novelty of being under the influence of Demeter seems to have no bounds. The cold air coming out of one’s mouth every time one speaks. The hard chill that envelopes the body everytime one steps out, so hard that it warrants a few layers of clothing. The golden warmth of the Sun shining, warm enough to make you appreciate it, and cold enough not to let one sweat either.
It was simply soothing and mesmerizing. Perhaps this warrants a trip to the hinterlands soon. The itch to travel is back…