Sometimes I think summer might be the saddest season

I know you’ll think I’m crazy for saying so

But it’s too good, too perfect, too true

That’s why it’s gone before you realize what you had

Like sand cupped in your hands

It quickly spills through the crevices between your fingers

And when night comes the breeze smells too fine

Of memories, of firsts and lasts

And all the times in between that you thought would go on forever

The cicadas sing too sweetly

Like the soundtrack to your favorite movie

And it makes you think that your life deserves a score too

Because in summer everything feels that much more alive

And important and real

But the trick is that in feeling the hum of your insides

When you drive with the windows down

Or the gentle careess of grass behind your knees

When you lay in the park at sunset

You eventually realize that life ends in a period and not an ellipsis

That one day you will feel nothing at all and that

Time is the cruelest season

When all you want is an Infinite summer night

The older I get, the more I realize it’s all a great strange dream

Just like Keuorac said

Sometimes I try desperately to read between the lines

Interpret every person, place and thing as a symbol of something larger

Searching for a pattern or direction that will make it all make sense

When the truth may very well be

That there is n o t r u t h a t a l l

No grand plan where the pieces fit together just so

But rather

Life is a great strange dream

Like the one you have after eating street meat

You walk on the ceiling and see your long dead dog

And wonder if the buzzing in your ears is a swarm of jolly bumble bees

or just your alarm clock