the gay rapture

It is the first day of Summer and I am alive again. I have dragged myself back inside so I can get into words how the sun revitalises every cell that makes me, belongs to me and sells me off when I’m not looking in.

         Everyone looks so beautiful. I sat in the square at the centre of my university’s campus finally returning to a writing project I have for months now felt hopeless about. I wrote plenty. But more importantly I watched everyone walk past me. Each of them looked like they were about to fall in love. Again. I’m in the Atrium of the Environment Centre, trying not to look up, at all the blue through the sky lights so that I can write this! The exclamation mark often feels it doesn’t have a place in my writing that isn’t contained to my phone. Right now, it feels like me. Like everything needs an exclamation because it is alive once again.

         I walked to the bus stop this morning, coatless, listening to the same songs I listened to at fourteen in the Summer. I didn’t spend too long in the past nostalgia is a disease, but it is so luvly to think about. And I know the Summers will get better.

         It has been an arduous year so far.

         One for the books.

         But the Oscars changed that on Sunday night. I watched one of the people who has inspired me the most, artistically, win the highest honour his industry can bestow upon him. I watched a film that has run circles in my mind for months receive an even higher honour. For some people the Oscars mean nothing, and I understand that but for me they mean a lot.

         I want to be outside, so I need to write faster.  

         From the Oscars into the sunshine, this week might now be one for the books. Pretty much nothing changes in a week, it really doesn’t. But it can start in a week. I’ve a feeling, that may age very poorly, that this week is one of those weeks.

         The weather is expected to remain wonderful over the weekend and I expect you all to spend as much time in it as you possibly can. Make this week better and so will the next week be. Read Dostoyevsky in the park or become so inebriated you can’t remember your middle name. But do it on a bench rather than a sofa. Either way, you must see the sunshine.