summer blues.

August and I have a complicated relationship. August taught me things like giving up. In August I do nothing. In August I stay in bed all day because it’s too hot outside to do anything else. People go camping, swimming, partying and on holiday while I tend to stay in bed.

In August I do nothing.

It’s okay. Other people have the energy that I lack during summertime. My summer ends in June and my winter starts in July.
In August I do nothing. In August I feel nothing. In August I can’t write. I wait for inspiration to spark somewhere in my spotless mind.
I wait.
I wait.
I wait.
I keep waiting for October.

In August I feel like someone who had been brought back from the dead. But something went wrong.
The necromancer forgot to put the soul back into the shell of my body.
August is a daisy which someone stepped on, so its stem broke into two halves.

I spend the entire month of August waiting for autumn to finally begin. The same way other people spend the entire month of December waiting for Christmas Eve. I anticipate October with a longing ache in my chest.

Sometimes August does me a favour though. It breathes back life in my lungs with crisp mornings, rainy afternoons, and foggy windows.
On those days I almost forget it’s still August.
I wear red scarfs, and hats and maroon lipstick. I make lists of books I want to read in autumn in a cafe in Edinburgh.

August and I have a complicated relationship…

… but we tolerate each other.

August taught me things like patience and endurance while I’m eagerly waiting for autumn because its magic already lingers in the air.

So I let July be July.
So I let August be August.

And I wait for autumn to feel alive again.