summer: an introspection through a cracked glass
Summertime rolls around dutifully once more, as it has year after year, with its hazy airs and graces, the soft buzzing of insects floating lazily amidst the opaque air; the warmth of the sun beating against stubborn weeds. Sleep-sunken eyes such as our own nestle amongst them, shifting listlessly over meaningless (or so you say) words printed over a page- a page freckled with the shadows of leaves of a grand, lone, tree, cast by the sun from its throne, high up in the blue sky. The faint taste of lemonade hangs around my mouth, sweet as the words that fall from your lips as you carelessly relate to me the mindless happenings of your life, worlds apart from my own. You dream of dizzying glamour of happiness, of freedom, of opportunity- the spirit, the promise of the unknown. Stupid, you ought to have known such wonders were not made for you and I. A faint, flowery smell dances in the air around us, soft and sweet, as it should be. Summer ushers in the hope of endless beauty, endless passion, vitality beyond expression.
Summer heralds the death of my purpose, the anticipation of new horrors and the slow, trickling dread of new beginnings. We run through the night, fingers sticky with stolen sweets, upturned mouths sticky with traces of stolen kisses, whispers of the most awful insincerity, impermanent, forgotten under the hush of the deep purple clouds, twinkling stars and the sky’s tears falling heavy on our faces, mimicking the ones already rushing down my face. The summer night stands still, its significance washing over me with the devastating overwhelm of realisation; the steady turning of the days, weeks, months, years would inevitably steal this moment from me yet. You laugh, clear and delighted, the bittersweet agony in my visage is unapparent, lost in the nebulous expanse of the hot night. You have no trouble seeing the beauty within the broken, your shallow mind doesn’t hinder your perception of your surroundings. Summer reveals, to some, the glittering embers of the heart, the ghastly truth within.
Summer marks the beginning of a golden dream of whims and fancies, an irrevocable vow of forgetfulness and joy. My muddled thoughts fail to differentiate hope from futile longing, especially in the orange glow of the dying sun. The waves slide over the shore, leaving a filmy spume over the sand. I stare at the horizon, watching as colours disappear, toppling out of sight over the edge- their likes never to be seen again. Small pebbles tickle the soles of my feet. It’s about the little things like these. The salty wind on my face, your curly hair blowing in all directions. I call out to the voices in my head, a desperate prayer, hoping, wishing, begging for my innocence back, the blithe sparkle in my eye, the feeling of pure, unbridled, joy. The lemonade had swiftly turned stale, the taste sickly on my tongue. ‘Enough, enough!’ I longed to declare, enough of this infinite dreamscape, enough of the reminders of the life I could have lived had I not been born subdued under a mist of fear and apathy. Summer symbolises the endless possibilities of what once could have been, and the bitter poignancy of knowing it never will.
Summer hides the lingering disquietude of want- the feeling of uselessness colours the dusky skies a dull, dead grey, strips me of myself, my purpose. Those dreams of perfection, desires of an epiphany to bring me to my senses are dashed unceremoniously to a cold, slate ground. The words are dragged out of me by some unimaginable force, spilling out like gushing blood from an irremediable wound. Worries, supposed to be lost in the delicate cradle of warmth, lurk at every corner, a reminder of all that is to come. Summer ought to feel happier than this.
A sudden chill passes over me. Nothing lasts forever- not love, not hate and certainly not this.
