I was jogging in to see Rose last week and came across someone's attempt to make the world a brighter place. It sure as hell made my day brighter. The person in question had written a word every 20 or so metres. Each word was written in brightly coloured chalk and each one made me think of summer memories. Laughter, music, sunset, happiness, rain, and glorious were just a few words of the art piece that streched a good kilometre along the footpath of George st.
Whoever that was, made my day.
Summer is without a doubt the source of the greatest memories in my life. It is where my home is, and where my heart is. I would be a completely different person if there was never a summer. I'd be a different person if there was never a winter either, but for me, it's the summers that makes me. If a man is determined by the mistakes he makes in his life, not the sum of his success, then this is not the right metaphor for me. I endure the dark times to see the summer.
But it's not the summer itself, it's the experience within my habitus. It wouldn't be summer without camping in Havelock, swimming with Rose and hanging out with the boys. SIGH
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