As summer comes to a close, I can’t help but feel a bit of nostalgia over the, ‘last days of life’, as I would refer to it as a bratty, braces-clad, sun-drenched teen. Returning to the monotonous-drum of school after nearly three months of freedom was hard for any teen, but especially hard for a adolescent that despised institution and begrudgingly took to discipline.
On those final days, before returning to that arid building on that stale-yellow bus, I lived like a Wild Thing out of a Maurice Sendak story. Making mischief, running the streets, and formally escaping to my relentless imagination. You could find me with a horde of yellow-eyed cohorts, basking in the final, precious moments of autonomy. I lived those days with ferocity, cherishing each second in that small space of time, knowing that it would so soon be over.
As I graduated from high school and went to university my coinage was laid to rest; higher-education was better suited for me, and promptly became something I immensely enjoyed. Those final days of freedom suddenly turned in to another day, just like any other.
And though this might make me sound like a masochist of sorts–now that I’m considered an adult, I long for those final days of bliss before my yearly sentence. It’s not as if I miss what was coming, but I miss what was–having a lucid grip on the reality that our days should be dear. Making mischeif like little Max. Giving in to our imaginations. And howling at the moon.