Today, I thought back to the summer and was struck with the most intense longing I’d felt in awhile. It’s the kind of longing that’s all the more painful, because you can’t go back. Summer has been very remote for me for years, and I have never been much tied to the ebb and flow of the year anyway. While some people wax and wane with the moon, flow with the spring rush of rivers, and grow young and old in sway with the trees, I have long been in a white-walled room. My only mental stimulation has been rumination on the truth that while there was a little hope, now there is no hope at all.
It’s these times where I want to reach out to the gold hem of summer’s dress. I want to prostrate myself for forgiveness, say that I am not missing after all and see? This ring is on my finger. All for you. For you, all. But the ring makes me curl my lip in disgust. I have been missing for ages in a kudzu snarl where summer has proven not to be so invincible. Not to mention I have nothing to give. There is no all from me or for me. I am an empty vessel or, rather, a sieve. Whatever I have passes right through me except for these goddamn rocks and pyrite. Used to be I assumed the cosmic panner would come up with a heaping helping of gold at some point.
Where I have long been directed is the land of the blue throat of winter. Or so I assume. So I take my cautious approach, if for no other reason than I have, after much idiocy and suffering, learned my lesson. I am all the more alone for it. The depths of my selfishness, my ego, and my thoughtless recklessness have long caught up with me. They say there are skull-topped ash wearers who accept anyone with sincerity in their heart. They say the genuine and loyal find all gates thrown open for them.
As I slow my cautious approach and finally reproach myself for the emotions I’m mixing in with my shame, anger, and disgust, I realize that I am not truly sincere. At some point early on I may have been sincere, but a memory of an unreachable summer burns it all away in a flash. I know where my allegiances lie, and even though those allegiances have long gone stale, on occasions such as these I m struck with their memory. Like a great cobra, they sink their venom-filled fangs into my heart. In some way I have never left summer’s precinct .
The most horrible part of it is the light has gone out. It has left me, fled across the star fields, and come to roost over my judgment day. I’ll be crumbled, last of all. I do not believe we come back. Perhaps we have union with some god but this is a privilege reserved for others.
I have said at I am not in tune with the flow of the year, but sometimes, near the Hallows, I feel a sort of thinness in the world around me. It feels as if a hundred million truths carried on just as many tongues are milling about. Coupled with that, changes in my life, and the cooling temperatures, it must be that some long-forgotten dedication has surfaced to torture, to shame, to disgust. Here–I throw it at my feet. I throw it at your feet. I pass it on to the summer that perhaps didn’t care about my existence after all or, if it did, can no longer be bothered with a fool pottering and nattering through life as they baste in rage and pain.
Of course, I know why that memory struck me so sharply. Deep down, where I chide myself, I pray that I might be able to enjoy the summer again. I hope that my allegiances might not be stale and that, now sadder but much more mature, I can rebuild the life I destroyed. But I know…this happens every time. There is no one there to see I’m missing. Sometimes memories are just that. No telling the depths of self-delusion I could fall into if I let myself have some hope. While I twist myself into knots cringing at myself, I still hope all those summers I missed will come back to me. Then I should hold on and not let go.
I am very tired. Life is very long. Too long.