I’m torn whether to embrace this mutation in the natural order of things with arms open or to just acknowledge it as what it most probably is – an exception to the rule, a mutation that will not outlast the year and will die out being unable to reproduce, as mutations usually are. Torn just as I am within my heart about decisions that cannot and should not be postponed anymore.
I’m not a person of vice; not really. But I would gladly become intoxicated with the fragrance of this atypical April and May summer – jasmine, cherry flowers and lilac exploding into bloom all at once – until delirium hits hard and throws me into the arms of what might be called bliss.
I’m struggling to remember the last time I’ve taken the time to allow myself to become enveloped by the warm silence of summer nights. Sleep was too precious a commodity for years now, you see. At this point, though, I’d readily give it up for a white night filled with sparkling stars (and sparkling wine if we’re at it), words about destiny and God, about crazy decisions and mad youth, about regrets and desire. You know the kind I’m talking about, my dear. Or maybe just sit in silence and let the warmth tell the stories we’ve been meaning to write but dared not until now.
Feeling the urge to move, to act, to do anything at all, so long as I can prove to myself – and to you – that I’m alive and matter. But oh, is the sweet stillness of warm summer nights not much too alluring to pass away? What if I just lie in a hammock for now, look up at the pitch black skies and count the stars, could you blame me?