And It Fairly Makes Your Heart Ache.
It’s an intangible something.
You can feel it all around you; it smells, it tastes, it even seems to sing. You don’t know what it is. It can put an ache in your joints and your head. It’s not sexual, but it is sensual and provocative. Your hands feel light and your heart fairly itches.
You seek the sun like a dog. Seeing pools of light in the middle of the floor, you want to lie down in them, curling your body like fresh garden peas poking from the soil. You smell the earth as it frees the frost line, it’s pungent and slightly irritating.
It’s not a joyful scent. It’s not a joyful feeling.
It’s a craving that makes you weak. It’s a tinge that hiccups through your veins. It’s a longing that makes you young, for a moment, then escapes out the car window as you open it for air.
You think to yourself, “I’m too damn old to feel like this.”
The puddle in the street looks overtly inviting, asking you to go to war within its boundaries. You look down at your shoes, and the thought crosses your mind for a moment, but you don’t. Even though the splash up your calf would feel remarkable-you still don’t.
You breath deep, reminding yourself that years of getting up and walking the world day after day have taught you to surround yourself with loftier expectations of how you should be seen. Each year, after your 20’s, you looked more and more at your face, hands, shoes, hair, and pants, and suddenly it dawns on you that you’ve forgotten to primp in front of your inner mirror. The one that still sees you at all ages, and all stages. The one that forgives your hair growing thin and gray, and your hands and skin drying and resembling burlap. The reflector that doesn’t care if your pants don’t match your socks. The mirror that gives you permission to laugh too loud at a friend’s joke, even when no one else makes a sound.
You want to be everywhere, and no where. You want to run with your arms flailing, and you want to kneel quietly among the budding pine.
It’s spiritual and it’s naughty.
It’s Christ-like and it’s pagan.
Humanity races towards the season like a hell-bent fireball from another planet, and you are in the way.