The prospect of a new beginning fills the lungs of august. The pleasure of early morning air. This is a month I give in.  

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Life will not be paradise but I’ll touch sunlight regardless. It’s funny how endless the good weeks can seem, how the air naturally cools down in the evenings and you adjust only by taking a blanket outside. We blow out the candles and the mosquitos are gone. All The Things That Happened scratch my skin but don’t bite.

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The days are elasticated and taste like homemade sponge cake. White icing and the flowers picked from the bushes at the end of the garden. The blackberries I found near our house. I spent all of my time (so sweet to call time my own) outside, still and submerged in the evening. Languished in language like the pages I paced through were the last chance of feeling and I, ofcourse, was naturally inclined, attached and devoted to consuming it.

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I left this world for another thousands of times and realized that the greens and blues were as strong and vibrant as I wanted them to be. I closed my eyes to picture it.

 

Time became hazy and tempting. I lived through lives that didn’t belong to me and I became guilty of gluttony. I was so obsessed with reading about people and talking to them that for a moment it was like nothing existed outside of articulation.​

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August has been said to be the month of reflection so I find new lakes to swim in.

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It was beautiful the way I craved home after the years of relishing in my freedom away from it.​ 

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Life trips you up and the blood on your knees stings less than it used to. The blood runs dry and there are no tears but a new appreciation for what makes things go red. I kept the umbrellas by my side but there was no rain, just the dry grass left waiting.

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