It’s the end of summer. Out of nowhere, suddenly the air feels that little bit more brisk, and the breeze itself blows ever-so-slightly stronger. The greenery of August is being superseded by terracotta leaves which are just beginning to drop from their bark-covered-skeletons, quietly laying themselves beneath my feet as a reminder of the season to come.
The sun is beginning to set just that little bit earlier, not that I’m complaining. I am but a humble servant to the master artist whose brushstrokes cast this pink and purple symphony of clouds and reflect them back onto the soft streams beside me. It is an empyrean beauty unmatched by anything manmade in this plane of being.
It’s all very cliché, but this singular moment of change resonates deeply with a personal renaissance of sorts. It tells me to re-examine, let day become night, let summer become autumn, and let myself be reborn into the next fragment of my being.
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