As I sat in the battered, brown chair—underneath the dull grey light which poured through the charity shop window—the ramblings of the shop floor’s very few occupants tumbled past my eardrums and numbly occupied my mind. “It’s not winter yet, is it. It’s still autumn.” The observant,curious intonation of Dean’s voice danced through the air. It made me release a subconscious chuckle. I thought that much was obvious—crumpled, golden leaves gathered in the corners of damp pavements.
When I look up at the multitude of colours in the sky,as they scatter themselves across the clouds, my mind wanders to that place of perpetual summer, where one spends endless nights running through fields as the sun sets or listening to the white crests of ocean waves kiss the sand as my lungs fill themselves with fresh, salty, sea air. To be present in a moment of transendental awe. ‘Tis wonderful to experience that visceral sense of glittering hope which one feels while gazing upon New York City, from the phallic structures which dominate the sky; to remain suspended in a seemingly perpetual oblivion—between the wordliness of ants and oceans of paper-induced adrenaline rush and the ambiance of a celestial realm which caress’ one’s spirit in hope of incarnating an intrinsic comfort to a being which symbolises the universe in ecstatic motion. ‘Tis the flow of energy. That’s what summer means to me; to relish in one’s own consciousness while simultaneously transcending beyond the realm of the proverbial box of human civilization; ‘Tis the transient being transcended.
So as the season shifts and time recedes before our eyes the realm of my mind also shifts to the dewy, autumn mornings when the water-speckled blades of grass bath in the cold, opaque sunlight; the lustrous radiance of the golden christmas lights dance with the buzz of warmth and elation which fills the air of the market; the heavily celebrated bass, electro dance and pop music of long summer nights, on the beach, is turned down and replaced with the soft lull of lounge piano, by the fire. The sticky mouths of children guzzle liquid chocolate and sweet pink fluff underneath the sprinkling of colours of the fairground Ferris wheel. Steaming, polystyrene cups of mint and green mushy peas fill frozen hands and soft knitted wool cuddles running red noses as stars explode, in the sky, above the bonfire. As ice cube moulds and transparent jugs are shoved into a cardboard box, shop shelves are filled with a multitude of selection boxes and tubs filled with foil covered glory. ‘Tis a blessing in disguise when denim ‘Levi’ shorts and string-tied bathing suits remain in the back of the wardrobe and knitted Christmas snowmen, on jumpers, take their place.
What a wonder it is to ponder upon the confusion of shifting seasons; how one era dissipates and melts into the next; how time recedes before our very eyes. Our minds remember fragments; our existence is fragmented. All that exists is subjective and exists in our minds. When we remember our childhood, we imagine snapshots and photographs; we imagine fragments of what has been. So when we imagine our concept of winter and autumn—our mental schemata—we see images and remember sensations which we associate with these phenomena—otherwise known as classical conditioning. Take moments with yourself to imagine that which tickles your senses; that’s what matters in life—it recedes anyway.