|How would it matter if I were in
the beginning or the end of it, as long
as I could be. There, like I said…
“I almost wish we were butterflies and liv’d but three summer days—three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.”- John Keats, in a letter to Fanny.
Keats died at 25 thinking he were a failure.
I didn’t die in the last few weeks. I didn’t think of failure too. I read fantasy horror (and Shaun gifted me Keats once), wrote a letter and a card, didn’t decide on whether to post one, found exceptional people, spoke to some, and thought about my life scoreboard, generally to take a breather.
Perhaps I’ll get my handwriting back this year. Perhaps I’ll also appreciate summers better, though I’ve always been a snow person. Perhaps all that a summer
ah a life needs is 36 conscious hours, for covering all mosts. Almost, made me feel few things would matter. But that’s never true, till it is.
PS: I began this post on the 9th. I cheated. I need more time off, so I’d finish it slowly. Keats in the title too.