Spring.

Crazy, fluffy, aloof chipmunk. Always outside the inner circle, always looking from outside the stained glass window, in. Outside, barefoot, sun on back, one with the frigid, fragrant and fertile soil. He was always golden, when the others were brown. Dull, brown. They were beautiful. Why was this his fate. To shine, from the outside, laughed at, judged, told what to do, never fully himself. Though illusions stem from his worldview, mere hallucinations at the colorful reality of life. But hallucinations they were not. Because perception is subjective. And subjective is real.