On bubbles

It’s already the middle of September, and I’m still waiting for it to start. It always does so slowly, with an effort that seems forced and dispassionate. September in my country is an addled month. It is hated by most, as it heralds the end of summer, and appears unable to defend itself in its lack of expressiveness. No multicoloured falling leaves here. No chill in the air, no change. Just a misguided, stumbling expiry of a season that’s laden with way too many foolhardy hopes. It only serves to accommodate the needs of those who imprudently prolong the order that the next season supposedly dictates.

It is all in the mind. We are the heralds of doom, believing we only live in the summer and then press replay in the fall, only to press pause, and live again. And yet we find comfort in repetition, reiteration and rhythm. We echo the familiar to the point where we don’t recognise our own voice anymore. Then we can wander aimlessly in peace. Somehow we are convinced that this is the worst universe we could end up in. That we have been cheated out of a superior one, one in which we are better off in so many ways we can’t even name or imagine them. There lies the problem: our complete lack of imagination. We enclose ourselves within bubbles we keep narrowing, and then believe that is all the space we’ve been given. 

So go on, please, burst your bubbles. 

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