Long have I now lived in this country of Wales; long, so it seems to me. Long enough to grow fat and used to the ways of doing things in this new place, both good and ill. I approach the end of term 2; I have done little to show for myself, but then, most of what is good is never immediately show-able. Just a few more months and it is done; then I am home, and God give me the will to return. Yea, even to this green heaven must I be prodded, for in my sojourn heavy has my heart grown with longing for the gems of my childhood. Why, circumstance, hast thou plagued me with such pleasant afflictions—to tear me between two treasures, spit me upon a jewelled crown, divide my soul beauty against beauty?
Such is the thorny realism of what is called 'growing up', or so we think of it. Can it not be re-understood as simply the acceptable excuse for our own abandoning of the things we have come to love? Is it 'life'—this intangible expression of who we are so often referred to in such plastic terms—that goads us to do those things which enrich but deeply sadden us? Have we not pulled our own wool across our eyes to make acceptable this foolishness that overtakes so many of our minds at an age passing forever from adolescence into man- and womanliness? Fie! Surely we have deceived ourselves in thinking such things forever inevitable. It is not 'life' that takes us far from the palace we call home and the refuge we call a prison, but our own ambition. Our desire to further whatever future we may have in a particular way.
Say I this to make meaningless the rupture here encountered? May it not be so; speak I only to open a window into a greater reality, to broaden our mental 'experience' on this sojourn of ours.