Desmond and the Violent Man-Fear.

I thought I'd better squeeze in one last incoherent ramble before my holidays bow out for the next few months. It's sad, yes -- as the end of vacations always are -- and it's in these moments when the end draws nigh that the fear of loss and the departure of consistency grips you the hardest.

When you're left feeling choked and suffocated, your instinct then works two ways: it either attempts to pull you back to pre-pre-end safety, or it propels you beyond the end, into the start of a new season. It fights to release the grip, pulling at your attacker; or it pushes at him, in a fruitless bid to convince a violent man to leave.

But maybe the man simply wants to talk. Or maybe he is numb from head to toe, and his hand against your throat is just that - his hand on your neck. Harmless, innocent, benign. Powerless. And weak. When you finally do stop struggling, perhaps it will be plain: you were choking the air out of yourself with another man's hand. And while no one has ever (and can never) strangle himself (to death), maybe you'd save yourself all the fear if you'd just stop worrying.

Tomorrow must come, as it always has, until the Higher Power says otherwise. Months must come, and Pre-pre-ends must be promoted to Pre-ends, and then Ends, just as New Seasons become Seasons, then finally Ended Seasons.

Time and Tide wait for no man. Any strife with Them is a useless attempt to turn away seasons. Seasons will turn themselves, in time.

So then, my fast-ending Holidays, I bid you goodbye, with a hint of sorrow and sadness. But there still is hope in me yet, because Holidays will come again. And until Again comes, I will yet hope.