There's no internship waiting for me at the end of this quarter. Another noisy note to the tune of be careful what you wish for, one of the many trends life keeps referring to, over which I ponder and remain confused. Summer Plans exist in a fizzled-out form, with cooking and coding at the geographic poles. They present a guide book to follow, which, coupled with movie theater Met encores, might steer me through summer sluggishness to the other (not greener) side that is autumn.
Inside, It keeps nagging. It leaves an absurd trail through months, and over years. Disconnected suggestions are easy to ignore until you see they all mean the same thing. It doesn't matter whether your closest friend or closest rival leaves the window down, since you are compelled to roll it up again. I notice the temperature every time. But when will I give up the easy answer? and is it worthwhile to find the other one?
I take it to heart, I really do. My personality is empathetic for a reason. And it is obvious to recognize obligation only accounts for so much.
Spring is the perpetual heartbreak, so it must be given up. Every year these months flirting between spring and summer borrow winter's classic, empty glare and wear it for my benefit, just me alone. 2011 I treasured it; last year we parted slowly, in some ways like 2010. A piece of it stays all year. The formula repeats itself, and you can go a long time in this way, stitching up enough decades to build a spring-struck life. I certainly will, unless I surrender spring.
Writing it is not doing it, writing is not even promising it. Writing simply acknowledges that spring permeates everything, all through the twelve months. Only It proposes to clear a path that will outsmart springs' wily, racing footsteps at my heels. It displays no guarantees, however.
