The Human Seasons

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man:
He has his lusty Soring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
Keats

She walks across the halls, trying to identify what´s there of familiar to her. New spaces and people, people, people. Students laughing and talking, signs and advertisements of events to come. The usual political propaganda, with a group of anarchy looking youngsters around, looking as if they have the key to solve all of the world´s problems, but she knows better. They are harmless anyway. She feels intimidated, maybe a little out of place. As she aproaches the classroom she hesitates for a moment, wondering if all of this is going to be worthy; the classes, the essays, the long hours sitting trying to write something that sounds remotely smart. And for how long. She knows that if she enters the classroom she would be making a comittment, not only to her, but to all the ghosts that stare at her from the dark. Becoming a student again. But now with a couple of extra years, a little bit more cynical and tired, very tired. She´s come a long way. She sighs and for a moment she thinks of the chain of events that stopped her the first time, the strike, her illness, long hours staring at nowhere during the night, hoping for a little break, the man... all of that comes into her mind. She longs for the years gone by, wishing to at least have a clearer recollation of what had happened. But it is useless, she has been given the gift and the curse of not remembering, at least, most of it.
Of course she´s being silly, and if she walks away from there she would be a coward, running away for the rest of her life, hiding behind an excuse that would justify her.
The thing is that she doesn´t want to be justified anymore.
She holds her breath and goes inside.