Warmth

Winter is an easier time to deal with. If you're cold, you bundle up. If you're still cold, you bundle up more. When it's hot, on the other hand, there's a limit to how much you can take off, and you have to strike a balance between removing stifling clothing and covering your skin from the harsh sun.

That said, there is something to be said about the brightness of the sun, and how it casts blocks of colour intercut with hard shadows, and how clear the sky looks, and the sparkle of leaves as they filter the brilliance of a sunset.

There is something to be said for the touch of radiating heat, intermittently caressed away by the light breeze; of the crispness of the grass and the firmness of the earth; of how different everything smells on a beautiful day.

There's something to be said for feeling hope and peace for no other reason than the sun is shining.

Why does the sun make me feel this way? I don't know. There's nothing logical about this. This burning ball of hot gas certainly has no feelings for me, would kill me if I got too close, would take my sight if I looked it in the eye. Yet when I stand, face tilted to the sky, eyes closed against the brilliance, all feels right with the world. When I throw open the windows, my room feels bigger, brighter, almost thrumming with life, as if the rays are a conduit to the world outside the building.

No, I don't understand it.

But I can love it.