I’m always waiting for summer to arrive.
During the long nights I find myself longing for longer days but now they’re here I can already feel them slipping away.
I can’t ever seem to hold on to the season long enough to taste it. With each bite tears collect in my eyes, the sweet juice of peaches drip down my arms and run down my sides.
My body is here, but I’ve lost my mind.
It’s on another plain fighting against time.
I wish I could bury my head in the sand, not just my feet. Maybe then the tide would wash away all my unresolved grief over how nothing lasts forever (somedays I wish it would).
This joy is too fleeting. I can’t hold on to anything real without indulging the pain of leaving, and the heaviness of breathing
whenever I’m too far away from the sea.
I’m already mourning the absence of peace.
There’s a version of me who lives in a small village in the south of France. She leads a simpler life, one of serene solitude. Each morning the smell of fresh baguettes seeps into her apartment from the bakery below and she wakes to the sound of morning birds. There’s nobody waiting or calling. No blaring alarms or demands. There’s nowhere to be expect there where she is. And in this room, the sun paints the walls golden. On Sunday’s she spends hours at the local market, decorating her hands with rare jewellery crafted from shells. The florist knows her name and has memorised her favourite flowers for when she comes to pick up her bouquet. Everything feels familiar. The villagers all recognise her face and she walks by smiling as she waves. For the first time, she’s let herself become more than an outsider in a new place. She’s not just passing through anymore. She’s swapped out her jeans for long white skirts. Her hair is salty and her skin is warm. Olive-toned like her ancestors. The Mediterranean sea kisses her bare body once a day as if it were a ritual. As if each time she dives into the deep blue she reconnects with the spiritual; cradled by its delicate power and protected by the unseen. She understands now what those ancient prayers mean.
Her balcony is lined with pretty potted plants and linens drying in the breeze. In the distance, the alpine mountains cast shadows over the boundless greenery. She stands with a journal in hand, framed by the same window she used to look up to. She’s imagined this life, written poems about it. She’s walked down old streets in old towns, wondering about who lives in each house. She’s met the gaze of strangers and seen a whole world behind their eyes and wondered what their existence must feel like. Do they dream of moving to the big, bright cities? Do they even think cities are big and bright? Do they feel like they’re running out of time? Do they cry when the seasons change and the days start losing light? Most of all, she wondered if they’re kind. She wondered if they’d invite her inside and show her what true happiness looks like.
The walls have faded from gold to a cooler, late-afternoon hue. She wanders over to the corner of the room towards a brown, antique desk covered with books and hand-written manuscripts. She feared creativity might not find her here, as if it would be intimidated by the tranquility and pursue another tormented artist instead. As if sadness was the key ingredient to every recipe she’d inherited. Perhaps she’d strayed too far. On the contrary, she’s learnt to listen now. She’s okay with the mosquito bites. And when the sky turns pink, she’s reminded that real art hides in plain sight.
I think my happy and your happy are two different things and that’s okay. I wish it wasn’t true, but I love you more than I’ll miss you. — 01:28, 9th august 2023
I can’t bear this feeling. Every year I dread summer coming to a close. I’m too tired to carry the sickness of missing home. — 02:54, 31st august 2023
“August evenings are especially stricken with melancholy - as if the ghosts of all past summers came rushing to haunt my heart.” - from Letters of Summer Past (Listy Tamtego Lata) VI
If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading!
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Don’t be a stranger x