I had the idea that this was going to be my last summer. Hopefully not for real, but in sentiment. Its a difficult practice, to trick yourself into urgency. Any summer could be my last. Last summer could have been. I am not even sure what I did last summer at all. Its just a blur of tennis and salt water, and most likely excuses on why I shouldn't sit down and write. 

This summer should be different. I am half way through it, sandwiched between a marriage and child on the way. I have plenty of reasons to be enjoying myself. I have plenty of reasons to be enthralled by my fortunes in time. To be so lucky, to recognize how fragile this whole experiment is, and to choose to love the adventure regardless. 

The last summer. The solitude. The selfishness. A little death of my stubborn ego, and an optimism for whats to come. What kind of person shall I become? 

And while that magnetic question tugs at me as an undercurrent, I dance in the living room, I eat berries from the bush, I ride bicycles slowly, I tell the sun I love it when it sets, I dive under the water, I form new relationships, I give more without expectations, I let go of my rumination more quickly, I read the books, I find the stillness, I appreciate each moment with a little more charm, and I cheer on my nephew, and all of the worlds kids. 

I savour, and do not let it slip.