First of August, end of July.
Times passed me by, again.
I often hear people complaining about summer. They hate the unbearable heat, the insomnia that comes with it, the mosquitoes, and the feeling of wet clothes glued on their skins. Not to deny those facts, I believe they don't really get the essence of summer. For me, summer is the longest days of the year, which stretch into cool nights and early sunrises. When your body is finally adjusted to the heat, when you drink enough of fluids, when you are ready for the sun to burn your skin, it is actually bliss. I adore the feeling of my skin getting hotter on those long walks. It is not enough, I need Helios in person to mark his symbol on my scapula.
When you find your rhythm, your pace, that you are in the flow zone, your surroundings don't matter anymore. I don't need to look at the landscape, the sky, or the houses far away. I only need to look at my feet moving, left... right... left... right..., I trust them to guide me. This endless path gives me freedom and peace of mind. We don't need PhDs in Physics to find continuum motion anymore, it's right there, beneath my own eyes. I still remember the old white house near the wheat fields, it looked fancy, and calm. I still envy whoever lives there, I knew I could rest there. Another thing that am sure about: I must make some kind of photosynthesis, some sort of anatomical anomaly. My body runs off by beams and prosper in this shining summer. I am a poppy in the wheat fields near my mother's house.
Luxurious nature, vividly green, absolutely majesties. From the centenary, tall trees reaching for the sky — I imitate them sometimes, we try to reach for the sky — to the fertile soil crawling of myriapods. I want to put my hands in this dirty soil and let its warmth consume me. Comfort me, Earth. Comfort me like my mother used to do. I will give you back my bones, once the time comes. I will give you this body back. For now, I enjoy your sweet gifts, your fresh water and your endless blue sky. It is a deep color, profound, never-ending, rolling out on its self — to the point that it is almost frightening. I try to look at it any time I get the chance, I know I will miss it dearly, deeply and furiously in the winter. It kills me a bit to know those months of bliss are short-lived and such a small portion of the year. I wished I could entrap summer inside my chest to never lose my light again.
Summer reminds me of lust. Strawberries eaten in the most erotic ways and my pockets filled with cherry pits. Summer dresses and love bites — II am not referring to hickeys. Sweat pouring on our necks, a glimpse and a smile — the forest catches fire, again. Summer is for her heavy exhalation on my neck. Sticky gloss, Pride month and new beginnings. Summer is for the most delicious kind of pain, from the sunburns to the salt in our eyes. You will forever find my bras underneath my side of your bed. I like to let the waves drift us away. We could make sand castles with all the sand that still rests between the pages of your books. And before going to bed, we stargaze and talk to the moon. We welcome the next day with clear minds and lighter chests. I like summer because we don't have to wear anything to sleep, the softness of your sheets, among other things, bring me peace.
Summer is everything to me.
