Another season is nearly over. The nice one (if to not consider
those few insufferable weeks of roasting sun when you wish for a magical,
massive slingshot to pop that merciless bulb in the sky). It feels like summer
is trying harder and harder to bring the warmth but it gets less and less
efficient. And no one is ever ready for the change. Yet people had a piss in
the sea, kids got tanned, and mums got acclimatisation herpes. Summer is truly
always full of surprises. After this hot carousel of colours and spoiled
thoughts, time is suddenly cooling down sweaty bodies a bit too much and a bit
too fast.
Sigh.
No one is ever ready
for the change, even though everybody is aware of the end. Everybody sighs. Why
then do people love autumn? Probably observing this time of year as the ageing
of summer, people are for an instant experiencing a certain comfort about their
own ticking clocks, contentedly-sad they compare it to something inferior, romanticising
about the weather, escaping the dreadful transiency of their own lives and dodging
this time, making it easy. The instinct of moral self-preservation. The last
warmth, last bright little days, Indian summer: the precious leftovers of
summer. Lethargy comes and everything is coming to the decline, and nothing is
as sad as autumn. People enjoy sadness, sacrificing summer for a good harvest,
a bittersweet farewell. Freshly made memories and supplies of vitamin D. Like
squirrels, people are still stocking up and preserving one way or another. Posting
and boasting their unforgettable holidays, continuously trying to resemble the
most charming and fun people in the world: look at my summer, like me, love me,
make me a celebrity #... But summer doesn't give a shit; nature does its
habitual cycle gradually fading away with a little help from its ‘friends’. No
one’s ready for that either.
Nostalgia, it is already here, and that favourite bed linen no
longer feels as nice and cooling in the morning as it used to only a couple of
days ago. Memories do not warm, they distract (which is at least something).
The Sacred August, the most desirable of all. Ripe and
tender. And summer nights’ special smell is at its peak along with meteor showers
that make our dreams sparkle. August is like a bridge that everyone must pass,
but getting to the middle we get a chance to stop for a moment and watch those
sparkling dreams. A chance to get ready. Then every morning is getting colder.
The barely noticeable odour of the sea is rolling back to its coasts, hiding
deeper into the mother seas’ bottom pockets. Every year, again and again, we
never learn, we are never ready.
(Absentmindedly we
wonder how long one person can keep itself in a plural number, calling itself
‘we’, ignoring the narrow subjectivity of its own vision of life and
attributing it to all the others.)
The wind now is the king, already trying on the seasonal
crown and sending us like leaves wherever it deigns to. And this distinguished anticipation
about new school year even if one finished it ages ago, even if one hated it,
it just always comes. Coffee is getting
cold faster. August is nearly over.
And every morning I’m
catching it all with my c&c on the balcony. Hungry for life I'm gulping as
much as I can ,except Sundays, when everyone’s in and I dare not pass the
living room (and disturb the TV’s praising ceremony) that leads to my outside
nestling spot. And I said nothing of the key, I had good summers too.
