I want to write something really profound about how seasons have changed not only in nature — from summer to fall and now on to winter — but also in my life, how my body is an ever present testament to that fact, and that you can’t hold on to anything in life (with the exception of my love handles).  But I am not as graceful as I like to think I am. And though words don’t often evade me — here I am: wordless, covered in stretch marks and scars from scratched mosquito bites from months ago, and faced with the reality that all I’ve got are memories, a tan that is fading fast and a philosophy paper due on Friday.  And maybe I’m okay with that, the fact that I can’t rely on anything to stay the same, especially not me. Maybe I find comfort in the fact that nothing is certain — not even uncertainty itself.