It’s always the last few days: they sparkle and glimmer like no others. Everyone is caught up in some kind of golden exuberance, dragging their fingers across this sepia-stained clingfilm, making sure they can feel every last second. Eyes are stretched as widely as they can go, as if we can somehow vacuum in every last speck of this place into a space that is fit for hand luggage. Even our breathing deepens, hyperventilating like we can somehow store this peace somewhere for the cold months, when Winter’s reality is too much.
These moments, they cling to you; cradle you in a golden canvas. We hold onto them because we know it’s not going to be the same tomorrow; that soon we will wake up in a faraway land, in a bustling city, and we will miss the sweet smell of pine or the crystal green of fresh water. Soon floral prints will fold in the face of wool tailoring and, soon, we will all just be grainy faces stuck on bedroom walls.
Soon enough, these present glories will become faded memories of a better time; a time when days were long and the sunshine was bright. Because none of this real, none of it was ever real. But that’s summertime: when the romantics finally get their chance to live life like they had always dreamed.
(image via incurablystircrazy.wordpress.com)