Others find spring romantic.
Everything awakens from their wintery slumber, blossoms open, life seemingly begins anew. It’s the season to fall in love in, the season for wedding vows, for having children, for outdoor activities, for outdoor sports. The season for life!

I, however, think that spring is the season of death.
Not just because my grandparents died shortly before and during spring respectively, but because of those opening blossoms.

Worse than the radioactive deathcloud from Chernobyl had hit us, this hits home every year.

Pollen.
Clouds and clouds of pollen.

I wake up in the morning with a sore throat and clogged nose, every breath hurts as if I had smoked two packs of cigarettes last night, minus the smell. And my eyes water and itch as if some jokster had strewn sand into them.

Outdoor activities?
Yes please, but only when it rains, or shortly thereafter.
Romantic?
In a morbid way, sure.
The same way some people think venomous snakes are romantic (or pretty), I think of beautiful springtime flowers/blossoms.

It never fails to alarm me, reminding me of my own mortality, when I wake up to an annoying cough, my eyes already a ground zero of itching and burning.
Seriously, frack spring.

PS: Despite this obvious attempt at manslaughter by mother nature, I still do my work out. It involves a lot more panting and gasping for air, but I do it anyway…

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