Dry. The drier and lighter they get, the years as they are counted in a free sequence. There’s always the possibility that some day of changed weather is never to come, or never so early as it should.
And how greatly do we still think ourselves to be to infer on weather’s own obligations? We should know better; we do, but we seldom trust our most direct knowledge. We hate having to be patient.
I wished this prose to be the last one written under this long Summer just as much as I desired to possess twice the creative strength to be a fuller-fledged proser, brighter in diverser ways.
I wished just about anything so that the upcoming Summer could hold any novelty. I feel it won’t and I feel alright with that understanding though. What follows is almost always the unknown, but not even then we cherish this which is close to us.
Our present is never it; I wanted mine to be something someday, more alike the future I’m patiently expectant about. It’s good to want more, it’s surely a fair mindset. And “more” can easily be composed of just an increment in the current dose of the “same” — still it adds up to more!
And that’s where my thoughts quiet their daily dreaming under a lowering sun of almost gone season: in conjuring fantasies on how to get to this said more that I’m however aware might easily just be pretty much more of the same — yet I will never call it that!
I focus on it as if there’s a whole perfection to this promise I make to myself. And I trust there will be some… enough of it for sure. Enough for me to show you that perfection can be made out to be dreamlike, and not the struggle we quite wrongly choose to see it as.