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T Minus And Counting


Guest mooro

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Place seems so empty now! Never ceases to amaze me the transience of the festival. All that work beforehand then 5 days of absolute chaos, a month or so later all gone and just a collection of fields. Same trees, same paths but all the people gone. Water passing under Bella’s bridge, piss free and clean, footprints in the mud grassed and covered. Nature reclaiming the land as days pass with hardly a sound. Days that slip into long quiet nights. Days that turn into weeks, then weeks into months. Seasons into seasons, summer, autumn, and then winter. That relentless march of time and with it the frustrations of knowing of the impossibility of stopping it even for a moment. Even if that moment is sitting on the grass, sun setting on the first night, the excitement palpable in the air. Memories of previous years fresh in your mind as you pinch yourself that your actually here again, the year has passed and that this year you’ll saviour every single moment before it too has gone. Then before you know it, this year is just another memory as hard to touch as all of the others.

Oh god I've gone all melancholy…..i need a festival….Glastonbury, that’ll do it….how long did you say? Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Or maybe I should just man up?

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Place seems so empty now! Never ceases to amaze me the transience of the festival. All that work beforehand then 5 days of absolute chaos, a month or so later all gone and just a collection of fields. Same trees, same paths but all the people gone. Water passing under Bella’s bridge, piss free and clean, footprints in the mud grassed and covered. Nature reclaiming the land as days pass with hardly a sound. Days that slip into long quiet nights. Days that turn into weeks, then weeks into months. Seasons into seasons, summer, autumn, and then winter. That relentless march of time and with it the frustrations of knowing of the impossibility of stopping it even for a moment. Even if that moment is sitting on the grass, sun setting on the first night, the excitement palpable in the air. Memories of previous years fresh in your mind as you pinch yourself that your actually here again, the year has passed and that this year you’ll saviour every single moment before it too has gone. Then before you know it, this year is just another memory as hard to touch as all of the others.

Oh god I've gone all melancholy…..i need a festival….Glastonbury, that’ll do it….how long did you say? Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Or maybe I should just man up?

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Place seems so empty now! Never ceases to amaze me the transience of the festival. All that work beforehand then 5 days of absolute chaos, a month or so later all gone and just a collection of fields. Same trees, same paths but all the people gone. Water passing under Bella's bridge, piss free and clean, footprints in the mud grassed and covered. Nature reclaiming the land as days pass with hardly a sound. Days that slip into long quiet nights. Days that turn into weeks, then weeks into months. Seasons into seasons, summer, autumn, and then winter. That relentless march of time and with it the frustrations of knowing of the impossibility of stopping it even for a moment. Even if that moment is sitting on the grass, sun setting on the first night, the excitement palpable in the air. Memories of previous years fresh in your mind as you pinch yourself that your actually here again, the year has passed and that this year you'll saviour every single moment before it too has gone. Then before you know it, this year is just another memory as hard to touch as all of the others.

Oh god I've gone all melancholy…..i need a festival….Glastonbury, that'll do it….how long did you say? Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Or maybe I should just man up?

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