That little imp inside me grew again today, with a stirring rush of blood. In the middle of the spring semester I could feel the creation of summer. Cerulean covered the day, followed by a cooling crispy wind in the afternoon, a wind that carried many gifts, sweet little selfish surprises that ransacked my spirit and plucked violently at my soul. What is a gift anyway, but a horrible reminder that someone has made a sacrifice in your honor? Well I have no honor. My story, however you look at it is a vicious cycle of tangible myths, pure perception of fantasy and the painful truth of imagination.
It began with an escape. Only now I realize that I ran from that scene, not for the sake of creating any distance between myself and Sebastian, but so that I could rebuild my island of harmonious loss. My defenses went into overdrive and I cruised back into my personal cave of plentiful pity.
In truth, we all alter our selves. We are not the desperate dreamers that roll about in our sleep in the still hours of the night.
I realize now that I ran
The sea is high again today, with a thrilling flush of wind. In the midst of winter you can feel the inventions of spring. A sky of hot nude pearl until midday, crickets in sheltered places, and now the wind unpacking the great planes, ransacking the great planes.…
Durrell, Lawrence (2012-06-12). The Alexandria Quartet (p. 1). Open Road Media. Kindle Edition.