Summersummersommercomekomhere

It's a beautiful day, said like we all know exactly what beautiful is. I say it's that time a year when you can't hope for a last brush of winter to save you from submitting to the sun. Every year I go through the same process of not wanting it. Summer is the end. It's the wet stain on the sheet and the last breath before sleep. It's the eggclock reminding you dinner's burnt. It's the exploding tires on the interstate. It's the last shake of the ketchup bottle.

It's a vacuum of nothingness. Long bright days that all sink into each other where nothing happens and nothing's exciting. For it's supposed to be exciting in it's mere existance. Throwing a party with the best of guests but lacking a script or a room to be in. Standing under the open sky holding empty glasses, summer's supposed to fill them all you know. Fill us all with joy and misplaced understanding of the greatness of life.

But what happens to those of us who won't succumb to the beast of a queen summer is? We'll hide behind giant hats and sunglasses and pout with teapots beneath the great shade of oaktrees owned by the crown. Leaving all that not aside, it's always the same where I patiently wait for those sun addicts to have their time, I soak my toes in lukewarm lakewaters and wait. Wait. Wait. Wait for September where life can begin anew. Without all the distractions of clothes barely worn and memories soiled by disapointments.