You asked me today why I don’t do something with my summer.
I have one last summer.
One last summer.
After that my time is no longer mine. I have to bring myself into the world of the working man.
You suggested that I place myself on a beach, in exotic heat. Or find a mountain, to scale its snow capped glory. Or visit some historic ruin of venerable antiquity to scour to my hearts content.
All of which are appealing ideas. They all tug at that wonderlust that lurks in a corner of my soul, habitually uncared for and chained to its leash.
I have my reasons for rejecting this pull.
I have the sensation, the expectation, the certainty, that I’m standing at the edge of a precipice. Standing and staring down a into a hole whose depths are as incomprehensible as they are inevitable. It is the sensation of staring into the edge of the future and the turbulences of time with the foresight of inevitability.
To suggest I go holiday, to go frolic in some foreign pasture, is to suggest that I fidget on the edge of the abyss. That I should meet the inevitable with something less then the grace and firm perspective that is required. To wring my hands and shrink nervously from reality.
I won’t do that.
Connected to that first reason is another.
As unfashionable as it may be, I’m looking forward to returning to the real world. I want this summer to end. I don’t want to prolong it with fluff and holidays, planning and organising and expeditions. They’re distractions, deviations, from that particular path I want to take. I’ve made that decision already. I know what I will do with the time that is given to me. Suggesting that I should consider a vacation is to tell me to reconsider that decision for no reason.
I won’t do that either.
I’m content to wait here, with my projects, my friends, my things, and wait for the passage of time to do what it does.