I’m sick of summer. It’s so strangely wide and thin, so grossly indefinite, mediocre and cyclic in a time-loop, groundhog-day way. It’s this time of high expectations which somehow start melting and mixing together in July, only to sizzle faintly on the hot pavements of August and vapourize as the wheel keeps turning.
It might just be the growing up-thing, the getting used to your new self, to the self that lives up to these new expectations (or, more likely, hangs in a midair struggle, not wanting to climb, unable to descend), getting used to the new compartmentalizing of your life: the past, the habits, the vices, the deaths, the memories, the mouth corners, the little boxes that you’re slowly getting used to, the present, the anguish, the exultation, the lack of any sense or motion, the little boxes that you’re not aware of, the future, the already bitter aspirations, the same habits, the same vices, the same sleeping issues, the little boxes that you can’t wait to fill. For the time being.
It’s nauseating to see us all in this bemused and wobbly state, to talk to friends you’ve known for years without realizing you’re wading through their own puddles of July-dreams and ocassionally crushing one with your heel, to talk to friends you’ve known for years and miss them like hell (so much you want to rip the hair off your head and yell ‘i fucking miss you’ but then again it’s a bit too hot for that), to talk to friends you’ve known for years and talk of nothing but silence. It feels like spines breaking. It’s nauseating to see the grotesque smiles, the obnoxious headbands and histrionic hand gestures. They flower, like colourless sunsets, in the summer. They’re the results of little fears and little hearts and all those little obsessions amalgamating. Thoughts, even when expressed, seem now to acquire the apparent incoherence of dreams (this post being the perfect example), when your random wish to taste pear liquor somehow triggers images of the fear of your hair dye fading too quickly, which is nothing but symbol of your latent fear of a relationship fading too quickly, of passions dying, of your cat dying, of using so many repetitions in a single blog post. It’s the inner dance for the summer god, a rite of drunk walking and heady stares. It’s the same talks, over and over again and, oh god, the same dreams. It’s the same places, the same people. Any new person (typologically speaking) gets kicked out, rejected, and there you are with the same people in the same places. It’s the same holiday thoughts. It’s the same self-indulgent incoherence, the same blisters on your fingers, the same failed attempts at playing the guitar only because you wanted to, years ago. It’s Chopin’s little dog playing on a loop through your fingers through your laptop through your headphones through your head like in a bad dream, it’s the same headache that keeps returning, it’s the same white paper/blank page I’m staring at and the same anger, its reason the same, its intensity the same, yet for some reason it’s already habitual. It’s not anger, it’s just another bad habit. It’s the same doubts and it’s the same disgust, the same unbearable, suffocating summer heat.
I still sleep with a wool blanket on my bed, and why?…

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2 Comments

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2 responses to “

  1. dotdotdotdashdashdashdotdotdot

    dunno. does it matter? someone loves you anyway(s).

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