This past week has been simply beautiful, for those of us who live in New Hampshire, anyways. Only at night has the air dared to dip below seventy, and I've been soaking up every moment of these sopping, sweaty past few days. All the trials, all the depression, just about everything that had been getting to me for the past five or six months just kind of evaporated, and whatever was left donned a pair of night-in-the-day glasses, rolled up its pant sleeves, and marched out into wiggling day.
Sometimes it also pulled out a pen and wrote. Wrote for hours without eating, peeing, or speaking to anyone. Wrote with this feeling that it knew, but that it hadn't felt in years, possibly a decade. At first it was confusing. All it knew was that this feeling was familiar and that it was good. More good than Superman on his birthday. What was this source of this goodness? What was making every little thing feel so special, so light, and so deep?
Then it realized what that feeling was. It suddenly knew where it had been felt before. This goodness had been felt spending sleepless nights dodging Mr. Salvador with Leon Scott Kenendy, rescuing lost faeries from the Northern Swamp, and bouncing around the small wooded patches of my yard, a place I called the Tropical Gym. These were the days of the Keyblade and Kairi, of Lloyd Irving and the Yggdrasil Tree, of Mewtwo and Master Hand. This feeling that has been not pervading, as it is welcomed, but consuming me nonetheless, these past few days has been youth.
It is that feeling of youth that has made the Creator draw word from pen. That feeling of youth that has chased away the depressed demons, the ferocious fears, and the neurotic nightmares. The feeling of Summer (though I knew it is not, the temperature disagrees with me) is the feeling of Youth. The warm seasons may be every older person's final opportunities to live life like they're young again, and I don't know about you, but that is not an opportunity I am going to miss.
