Summertime

Summer is happiness, and happiness is a strange thing that only happens in the past: it is a projection on a mathematically nonexistent point where what we long to have intersects with what we think we have lost. Therefore, returning to summer is impossible. Nevertheless, each year summer insists on coming back. It settles in and displays its deceptive decorations, invites us to close our eyes and try to experience the moment of weightlessness where the temperature is just right, the breeze exact, the effort is minimal, and the body rolls down a gentle slope in neutral. One can abandon oneself, let the heat melt the mind and put it in a perfect state to relive the lost happiness. On reaching this state however, things do start to happen, but they never have the expected reconnection with the happiness from our past. This was the summer; it was not on the beach, it was in the eyes of the person that we were in the past and cannot be again. An elusive and irretrievable dream lived just a few meters away from us by other future grown-up children. (Text: Luis López Navarro)