>Reflections on a Sunday

>Imagine, you’re 12 again.

The summer holidays are waning, but the weather and the day’s eve are still ripe for playing.
Playing ‘tip the can’ with neighborhood kids, friends, family; being out of breath, dirty, sweaty, exhilarated.
You run, hide, chase till the warm tangy orange turns to a crisp beautiful evanescent purple, peppered by the cosmos.

Your extra large jumper insulates your chest but your shorts neglect your knees. You sit on a fence with your friends having friendly discussions over the importance of life and how this summer drew faster than the last. Your unconscious registers this theme and your childhood waits to lament the crux of age for another day.
Today was a forgetful, meaningless, bountiful day.
Today was an adventure into life.
You leaped with confidence over the stream, miraculously configured the way down your favourite tree and explored your way through that amazon jungle. Drank a litre of concentrate orange, went to the shop three times, broke into a building, ran through a field without your welcome, held back the tears from a severe leg injury and less not forget how you made those girls laugh.
Today was a forgetful, meaningless, bountiful day.
What you do today?
Nothing. Im too constipated to do anything.

About davetheminogue

I'm one of those cynics you're always reading about.
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