Notes on Spring
The sun has no purpose — why should writing?
There are so many dandelions. I blow two wishes across the grass. I could make a hundred more.
The sky smells sweet. Dead flowers. While my legs cool, the sunset turns the most glorious shade of radioactive, swampy lime.
I write this down to notice.
For a while, I confess, I have quite forgotten to notice. Life is so full of big and abstract things — bills, loss, family, cancer, love, rage, notifications and plastic cups and extortionately priced meal deals — that I had forgotten the things do not make the life.
I stare at the dandelion in my fist and remember being a child. They seemed bigger then. I still believed if my chin turned yellow, it meant I liked butter. (Who doesn’t like butter?)
Up until recently, I still believed a lot of things.
Life shakes you. Mostly for the better.
Mostly it has woken me up into the gentlest sort of heartache — gratitude for my parents, for the sweet smell, for the geese honking overhead. It seems ridiculous that I ever found my hometown ugly.
When the sun sets 9PM in England, and the air is still pleasantly cool — any street of vapes and AirPods could be the most beautiful place in the world.
All this is to say, I forgot how to write for a while.
I forgot how to do things that didn’t have monetary value. I thought I had to invent pretty titles for pretty metrics in ChatGPT. (Which is awe-inspiring.)
I forgot the love for the thing. Now I remember.
I hope, whatever meeting you are in — however many there are, however shiny the titles of them get — you still take time to smile up at the geese.
