Alone I Cannot Judge

There is a day that comes annually that I fear above all others. Each February I make sacrifices to the hyperborean gods of winter and humble placations to the torrid gods of summer. But the inevitable arrival of this dreaded day always disproves such fleeting, desperate polytheism anyway. What day is this, you ask?

The day when I head to work wearing my coat and by the middle of the day I end up carrying it around because it's too damned hot for a coat at all.

It is the despised herald of summer, this nefandous day of ultimate suffering.

No, no. Don't mistake me. It is merely spring now, or almost so. I like spring. This isn't about spring, a time of great verdancy and delightful, sunny days. No, this is about Summer. See, there are two cosmic forces eternally opposed: the wicked Summer, that sears and burns and annihilates, and the merciful Winter that softens the harsh rays of our closest star. Autumn and spring are mere climactic stalemates between these two disparate powers, and are certain to be enjoyed by us mortals as the cosmic balance endures for about two to three months at a time.

In fact, I adore autumn, true autumn when leaves are turning and the air doesn't threaten to flay you alive. But no matter what, one of the two greater powers gains the upper hand and reigns supreme for a season, banishing the other to a memory. When Summer draws nigh, it extends its fiery tendrils through space and pulls the Sun closer to us, thereby making our world swing around in close proximity to it, allowing it to scorch us with its malevolent, burning stare. Fortunately, the Winter is canny, and utilizes this same momentum to fling our world far from the sun again like a slingshot. With the Sun thus distanced, Winter can raise its frosty mantle and soothe us in the darkness.

But right now, those seething tendrils reach for the Sun....

Worse, the Summer has a hold over the majority of this world's inhabitants. Sycophantic minions who indulge the Cult of Summer with such intonations as, "Let's go to the beach!", "Now I can wear shorts again!", or the unimatinative religious flattery of "Finally, the Sun's out again!" Summer dresses, bikinis, shorts, and sandals are the raiment of these cultists, not easily overlooked. 'Ware them, for they are the living avatars of the season of fire.

Damn you, Summer.