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Longshadows
Martyr
wilowisp
Liminality comes a calling in this beautiful time, sunset so far into the evening that one wonders if night was just a passing fancy of the universe. A week now til midsummer, two weeks of languid evening light that stretches my shadows long and my heart strings golden. There is a melancholy (there is always a melancholy with me, it seems) that is akin to the pale of winter and the cold-snap scents of autumn, but born of its own rolling joy. Too soon will the daylight crest, and we begin the slow decay into darkness again. These are the sweet times, and I wish to hold them forever.

But in that cherished embrace comes the paralysis of doubt, of time misspent and another summer lost to dreaming what could be rather than doing. An illusion that there is a perfect time, and a perfect way, and that things planned are better than things spontaneous. This is the unfortunate intersection of youthful remembrances of the summer and the burden of my adult mind. Oh to cast off such burdens! Oh to feel planted in the warm sand and skip across the waves and sleep in the leaves again.

Instead I shall listen to songs that make me weep, and watch my lovely shadow continue to grow.

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