The happiest of days

After spending many summer vacations meeting either relatives who I can only see in the summer or new people, I detected some pattern to the general structure of those meetings. I noticed that the first quarter feels the longest and the hardest. It generally has the most effect on the whole experience. The second quarter, on the other hand, is the complete opposite; everyone seems to be in agreement and proud of having survived the difficult beginning. The third quarter is where the most conflicts are seen, the homesickness is felt, and the flaws of others are apparent. The fourth and final week is a mixture of the first two weeks. It is both sad and happy at the same times which creates confusion.

For as long as I can remember, holidays are when I am in the most of sorrow. It is then that I want to be furthest away from people, for my sorrow has no place in their well-timed happiness. It is a capital punishment to be reminded of how the years go by, and how the boys become men and elderly, or of how life balances my deteriorating mental capacity with the minds of brighter youngs. Minds that have not been littered with the filth of every thought that passed my old forgetful mind.

Yes, I realize that I have conceded. I no longer wish to fight nature, I only ask from it to leave me in peace. My grandest goal is to live as far away from people and disasters as I can, interrogated by the harshest and most knowledgeable interrogators everyday to admit weakness and humility, trying to save a sensing body that is gradually slowing down as if to prepare for its ultimate end.

This bravery, in admitting helplessness, is the most I can salvage on my deathbed. They produced happiness all these years in every holiday, but I was brave enough to cry, surrender, and run away.

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