The last day of summer is a day of mourning. Mourning of what used to be so easy, that suddenly isn't anymore. Mourning not of the passing of summer, but of the passing of life, of the passing of life that is so slow at first and then so fast.
It's so fast that when we look back there is nothing but some moments, significant or otherwise. Glimpses, that make you wonder, did they happen, or where they dreamt up?
But what if summer was the time you gave in, and the time you gave up and now that autumn's coming, promising a hard winter, now it's difficult to pull it all back in? Because what bends, it always has a breaking point. And this summer, this summer is the last summer because it's been pushed and it's been bended, far more than it should.
It's broken now.
But you knew you were doing the breaking. Willingly. By letting yourself give in and letting yourself give up.
What am I meant to do when the fever dream ends? When the engine in my head runs out of oil? When the battery life, that was always diminishing, doesn't charge at all anymore? When my life runs out of, well, life?
