Spring musings // nostalgia
A lifetime in the northeast teaches you to expect Spring's awkwardness. It announces itself too early then takes forever to crawl up the driveway. Trips on the doorstep. Trampled by and overeager blizzard. Embarrassed, it retreats to the bushes. Then it returns with affected dignity.
But it does come. Sunlight at 7:00 am reminds you that you still haven't purchased curtains. The morning sounds of blasted-at-red-light hiphop turn to a harmony of passing hiphop and birdsong. Heavy coats are donned, regretted, shed, then longed for. Night's prisoner's roam out on parole.
The problem with teamwork is that you can't pick your own hours.
Lately when I stop for long enough to let the thoughts burst from the cap and settle like spores, I have physically whimpered. What is released each time is an attitude or perspective of an earlier life that I may never know again.
When I was very young, this sensation--that, I suppose, of aging--made me throw tantrums and weep. Now I don't have the luxury of those means of expression.
If Bataille is right and society is defined by how it consumes its excess, then the last century will stand as the greatest for setting its accursed share so brilliantly aflame--both in war and in art. What is left for us is smoldering. A world of embers cooling to ash, of oceans' simmer softening. The endlessly slowing creep to heat death.
I miss the summer of 2005. I walked everywhere through a campus that was home to me. I worked fifteen hours a week doing math. I was growing to know people who would become some of my closest friends, and I knew almost nothing about love.
What a time! I was overflowing. I had given so little of myself away.
A proposed definition of eudaimonia: approval of the ignition of ones excess.
But it does come. Sunlight at 7:00 am reminds you that you still haven't purchased curtains. The morning sounds of blasted-at-red-light hiphop turn to a harmony of passing hiphop and birdsong. Heavy coats are donned, regretted, shed, then longed for. Night's prisoner's roam out on parole.
The problem with teamwork is that you can't pick your own hours.
Lately when I stop for long enough to let the thoughts burst from the cap and settle like spores, I have physically whimpered. What is released each time is an attitude or perspective of an earlier life that I may never know again.
When I was very young, this sensation--that, I suppose, of aging--made me throw tantrums and weep. Now I don't have the luxury of those means of expression.
If Bataille is right and society is defined by how it consumes its excess, then the last century will stand as the greatest for setting its accursed share so brilliantly aflame--both in war and in art. What is left for us is smoldering. A world of embers cooling to ash, of oceans' simmer softening. The endlessly slowing creep to heat death.
I miss the summer of 2005. I walked everywhere through a campus that was home to me. I worked fifteen hours a week doing math. I was growing to know people who would become some of my closest friends, and I knew almost nothing about love.
What a time! I was overflowing. I had given so little of myself away.
A proposed definition of eudaimonia: approval of the ignition of ones excess.