Hr Dissertation - Seasons Of Essay
Behind Wicklow Street, like a message on a folded piece of notepaper, there is a place where they sell old vinyls and leather-bound books, every edition of the National Geographic back to 1988 and magazines about rock music.
Someday soon after that the stars will come out as the sun goes down. I always wonder if the sun’s rays purposely beam brighter during back-to-school season, desperately gleaming through windows, illuminating classrooms and libraries to cling to summer for as long as they can. ) sweetness on my lips too, but eventually accept that the transition of the seasons is inescapable, no different than any other year.
The world will go from the colour of spilled water (used to clean a cobalt blue watercolour paintbrush seconds earlier) to the blue glow of a shadow on a sunny day. Slowly, and then all at once, my carefree energies fizzle into humdrum routine just like a sunset sinks into a faraway horizon, and the ripe autumn days arrive.
The cracks in the footpath are amplified by the small orangish light emanating at intervals from lampposts that really should have been replaced years ago.
It’s something about the unnerving blackness of the bin’s shadow, a darkness that crawls up your chest and lets you know that, if you let it in, could spread and spread and spread and consume. The moon is following me, constant if ever changing, a contradiction like me and the month of my birth, the watchful guardian who is my bone-white foil to the depth of the darkness. The increasingly ever-evident trickle of the sand timer announces January.