Unwritten

Wait for November, when the tides are calm. Wait for August when sleep is deep. So I have waited, biding my time for a crowning moment that will never come, a perfect spring that has never bloomed and never will. I have come to realise no November will ever present itself to me easy. No summer holiday is really free. I must get on with what I love, must get on with what I dream, lest lose both to the tides of time. Kundera mentioned the unbearable lightness of living only once, and never again, but I know better. In this universe a scribe notes down my deeds, details each dream spawned, each dream miscarried. A timekeeper tells me there is no time to waste, no life to spare. Perhaps a thousand times have I been in my twenties, but each life demands the writing of a different tale. I have lived a hundred thousand times, but this story, only once, or not at all. The time is ripe, has always been, a thorned husk always within reach, carrying within the fruit of dreamers, the seeds of labour, sweeter than the nectar of the gods.