Just out of Reach

The first spring of this decade.
Three years ago now, and a season, in one way or another, of things ending - culminating, of course, in the old call centre going bust, and everyone losing their job. It was my first spring in the bedsit - I was not happy at having to live there - and work was no longer quite as fun as it had been.
Despite this, that spring has started to achieve an odd resonance. I can't quite think why though, but my memories of those few months from when winter finished (a spring day in February - I bought Schulz's Street of Crocodiles and it no longer felt like winter) until that fateful day in hot May, have a certain feeling of dream-like euphoria about them. It has a lot to do with the sofa I found abandoned in the fog (and am now sitting on nearly three years later), probably because it made my bedsit feel a bit more homely. Also mixed in is the third Reigns album House on the Causeway and the Buffy the Vampire Slayer DVDS I was watching (I bought the whole series bar one that Spring, completing my collection).
I say dream-like euphoria and that is more pertinent than may appear. There is something dream-like about that season, and dream-like in the way that there is something there I can't quite grasp, like trying to remember something in a dream you have just awoken from but can't. All you're left with a few fleeting glimpses of things wonderful and alluring precisely because all your left with are fragments, and those fragments fading fast too.
There is something lost about that time, something I should remember but remains just out of reach.