I may love the smell of rain tapping on the crusty hardened soil, but then my hands, anesthetized by the sudden glaciating breaths of nature, they ache with the need for that midday sharp, almost acidic, rays of shining fire, born to silently burn the back of my neck.
Weather is the most primal continuum, one that sustains us with hope and sense of being, causing our witty curious minds to struggle trying to predict what’s still to come and exist. We treasure every sunny day calling to a walk by the beach, just as we are thankful for those thunder evenings, enclosing us at home and forcing us to binge-watch “True Detective“. We can deal with almost anything, but our merely human mental disposition remains unable to swallow monotony as a reality.
Time rolls, flies or simply passes. Fast or slow, it is constant in rhythm while making us feel totally twisted with all those different sensations of speed it can offer. Time does not wait, neither longs for what it left behind as it can’t hold a thing against its yet unbuilt frame. Time is not a physical entity nor a spiritual one.
Time runs, endlessly, whilst never even having started to tick, for it is man-made, an innocent assumption to ease our unbalanced tendency to lose track of the present. We simply can’t live unscheduled, as the absence of control over time, that ultimately contains our lives, leaves us hopelessly lost.
From there, conscience gave birth to our innate effort to define time intervals as passing phases, otherwise we wouldn’t be able to locate ourselves inside this unstoppable machine. We create memories, seasons, change. We hold onto palpable images, melodic representations of indescribable moments, a rational grip of life. We restlessly try to logically live but we fall short, every time we illogically feel.
There are times when we try to detain it, to impede the present from keep going. Moments we lived and cherished so much, yet they always go, leaving us like it was never meant to be something at all; and it’s not for us to decide if they come back again or not. Moments when we felt too comfortable, however, it seemed like we could almost already smell the dampness of the upcoming tears, momentarily hiding behind our silly grin.
We can only miss what we created, what we widely believed in, even if it presented itself in such deceptively ways; what was ours at some point so now we can rightfully call it lost.
I’m not a man of summer, neither am I a winter lover. I’m the kind of person who misses whatever is gone for the longest, for the promise of what’s still to rise is what spices this present, with a pinch of validity.