Thursday, 7:40am, London
Approaching the middle of June, walking down into the vast plains we saw from the outcrop of spring, an expanse of summer lies ahead. A few months titled fully in towards the sun. Nighttime pushed into a shadowy corner.
It’s okay, for now. It’s quite not what we hoped for in the depths of winter. It’s been a slow start: cloudy, sometimes rainy. The hotter days we had in May are already forgotten.
Autumnal feelings resurfaced in my body this week with a dullness in the evening light.
The sun is there. It’s breaking through. This morning already, there’s a light beyond what we can remember mid-winter. The heat hugs you if you’re lucky enough. It’s there, but not yet the creative force we know.
Two and a-half months left, or thereabouts. Enough for it to come, I tell myself, and others. “Surely”, I say, “up until the end of August, there’s a fair chance we’ll have it good at some point.”
Give it time.
Or, let go. Relinquish your grip. Longing for summer, or for golden days, will leave you looking in the wrong direction.