I adore winters. Although, I’m always sick and unwell for most of them. I love the chill in the air, interrupted by gradual sips of tea, coffee, booze, and warm conversation. I love how ruthless the cold can get at times as you’re out and about, sitting with your friends, feeling the cold slowly spread around your entire body. Winters in the hills is another experience altogether. The misty roads in the morning and evenings. The slight hazy filter over the entire city. The feeling when you wake up in the morning and want to snuggle in the blanket for a while longer. The feeling when you finally hit the bed at night, and snuggle into the blanket yet again. All of that, and an over-abundance of extra warmth all around you. Everything slows down, and then just stays like that for a lot of months. That’s what I used to think earlier. It has come to my realisation lately that calm and cozy winters won’t make as much sense if the summers weren’t passionate and crazy. As I took yet another walk around town, embracing what is allegedly my favourite time of the year, I realised that you need to be spiraling for slowing down to make sense. With that epiphany, I appreciated summer which is something I had never done before, and maybe, just maybe, I missed the hyperactive energy and eventfulness that had disappeared as the chill began to set in around me.