August 19, 2009
Two days ago the mists of November floated with a conqueror’s conviction through the air and the atmosphere was that of a world set on fire by the sun’s very last beams. The world of this day, younger than the one which brought me such melancholy, is more summer-like, but not any more cheerful.
Though the sun blazes with the conviction of the last weeks of summer, the rest of the world had lost its strength. Winter and its hounds of autumn may be gone for the time being, but the wounds it inflicted upon its prey of summer’s fairness still remain. The maiden of summer, the one I hold so dear, she has been hurt and her strength has been lost through the cuts in her rosy skin.
Nature is like a beast wounded for the moment, putting on a face of no concern while suffering in silence. And though the winds played with my hair whilst outside, their enthusiasm was gone; they had lost the motivation they usually prod with possessing, their laboured play was more of a task to be fulfilled than a joyful activity in which to find delight.
The last flowers of the season are beautiful and bright in their colour, but their green is not as healthy as their counterparts several months back were. There is a tint of brown to all aspects of the late summer’s world, scars of fatigue that are carelessly hidden with limited success.
It is with melancholy in my mind that I walk among the riches which have grown tired of their own appeal. I wish for summer to last forever more, and still everything around me makes me realise that summer soon will be gone. Nature knows it, as does all who have felt that their energy is not what it once was, that their stamina has been lost through the passing of time. Though we are tired, we attempt to remain cheerful with an insincere smile playing upon our saddened lips.
Summer will return once more, having rested during the part of the year which now soon is to come. I can however not fully appreciate the promises whispered into my ears by the tired winds as I feel that my acquaintance with summer has been all too short this year .
Weeks ago, summer was everlasting and its aged days were nowhere in sight. Now, I am in the midst of them, dubious feelings residing in my heart. I try to remain cheerful, as does summer, but some attempts are destined to fail; some battles were always intended to be lost.
Perhaps my sadness — concealed by constructed smiles — is a reminder of mine, employed to engage my person in more productive tasks. For truly, my life is slipping through my fingers in vain, as does the viscous diamonds of water when attempted to be gathered from a pond.
My life’s summer has only started, but as this summer already has grown old, so am I also told nothing lasts forever. Though the summers of one’s life are perceived to be long, they are not when contemplated in retrospect.
That is the reason for why no tasks must be delayed and that one must cease the moment and soar whenever the opportunity is given. For is one doubts and passes up on the chance of a lifetime, it may go on to be lost to one for evermore, never to return.
Catch the day without regard for its elusive nature, see it as a butterfly which is to be chased across the fields of life, finally to be caught at sunset in the net of one’s own being’s construction. Everything comes to the one who has the patience to wait, but at times virtues are to be disregarded from and one has to soar from the shoulders of one’s own giants when the time is right — even if it is premature.
All who has the strength of conviction to attempt to attain the goals for which they reach are to be successful. But only so if they ever dare to spread their wings and truly fly.