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The blanc canvas required for a new summer of delights

Climbing the hill to our house, I’m not too sure the defining transformation from frost to this endless enduring rain and its vigorous grayness that tends to fade all beauty, that is impossible to shake off as it creeps into your soul, bit by bit, day by day, while obscuring all lighter thoughts with its burden of solemnity, faking an infinitude nobody would cheer for, will eventually lead to the blanc canvas required for a new summer of delights at Les Pierres, if it’s the reset we need to prepare us for what’s undoubtedly coming back, for us to appreciate it even more. If so indeed, could it please stop, point taken and very much understood.

For the recovered writer in me, the one never truly lost but I’m still trying to fork out a well considered comeback for in my personal life, right beside other interests I’m not yet willing to give up to it, these must be golden days of contemplation and soul-searching, of moving inwards for lack of spectacle outside, the ultimate conflation of melancholy and creativity into this mythical romantic pain others either feel a jealous like compassion for or are scared of because of its deep darkness.

These are also the days where discipline and routine should have returned as the aerated accompanying mates I structurally read and write with to daily repopulate my brain, to not find myself empty-handed ever again, with nothing much to show for the efforts indeed put in, but they were perhaps too fragmented or too light-hearted. My irrepressible tendencies however usually interfere, breaking routines as soon as I am aware of them, a heartfelt necessity not to get stuck in neither good or bad, just like my Calvinist traits of duty before pleasure, fatally detrimental to loss of imaginativeness.

Simultaneously these are the very same deep dark January days that introduced us, introduced me, to America’s first-ever youth poet laureate Amanda Gorman and her amazing and inspiring words, as well as her presence, touching fertile base with my belated discovery of why I still write. It’s no longer just because I supposedly can, but because I long for it like an insatiable covet. For there is indeed always light.

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