Write write write.
Every time. The end of August makes me do it more diligently than ever. Summing up another unproductive summer like it's a new year's resolution. Perhaps it is. After all, old, long-standing habits always outweigh new, fleeting undertakings. It is a new year in school, university. For me it was always a huge event. An arsenal of pens and notebooks, new shoes and backpack. Another chance to study better, fix everything. But maybe it's also the eve of my birthday which I can never enjoy in full because of this immense longing for the departing summer.
There’s something special in this period, as bitter and as sweet as possible and my melancholic personality cannot help but enjoy this time. Today it's so sunny and as cold as it can be at the end of August, and I feel exactly the same as a year ago. Does this testify that I haven’t changed at all and stayed in the same place? My life cannot be called planful, and those rare changes are very painfully palpable. This year there were enough of them and they managed to undermine this unstable concentration of mine. It's so hard for me to hold on to one thought, it doesn’t let me live fully, be active, and act purposefully. Usually this phenomenon constantly worries me, represses and paralyzes me, but nottoday. Seemingly the end of the beautiful season, so little time left to do something, to have time to enjoy it, thoughts in such format should have strangle me completely, should have created absolute chaos and vanity and drive me to a dead end, but it is simply not happening. Yet?
I want to write again all that I wrote a year ago, about the deceptive heat of September, that the transit of this time of year is so tangible that it is like watching the sea, when everything around is an endless movement and you don’t need to worry, you can stand still in one place and just watch, and it will be enough. But these words are not new, and neither am I.
Some shadows lead to others and everything repeats.
I continue to play ‘what the best me would do now seeing the worst me’, which is actually me I believe. The best one would just sit next to me. Maybe she wouldn’t smoke and would have kept all the cigarettes for me to survive a day. The best me feels sorry for me, she knows what it’s like to be me. I annoy her a little but she is generous with mercy and patience, we are sitting together on a sofa and she is waiting when I’m gone. How much better her life would’ve been. We are sitting together and looking out the window at the blue cold sky. We feel good together but we are waiting when one of us will get out of here. And she’s leaving. Hopefully she will return when the weather is better, or will congratulate me with my birthday, but for now, she’s got lots of things to do and her own life to live.
The end of August is something unbearably fantastic. It feels so awake and real, so fresh and reassuring, like the last gulps of a freedom, of a life itself, it is so valuable for it is so irreversibly ephemeral. I miss a lot, and I’ve missed a lot, but at the end of any work there should be a little hope. I can’t think of anything so I’ll end on a good old phrase that my dad often used to repeat to me;
Omnia transeunt, et id etiam transeat. nihil interit
