In August, it all comes rushing back.
The syrupy sweet taste of honey coating my hands, and the way I can never seem to wash it off. The honey drips in slow, agonizing droplets, symbolizing the slowing of the days as I watch, endlessly tired. Once again, the excitement of June and July has dimmed, and I am left with nothing but the waning surprise of my own mind.
August brings trailing thoughts, leftover conversations, and breaths caught in between waves. I see in fragile moments how truly insecure I can be. After a late-night dinner, a slow text thread, a five-hour shift organizing chocolates, and scraping ice cream tubs, I have to drain my brain from the fact that I am wasting time.
So, I turn on some of my favorite comfort films, like How To Train Your Dragon, Paddington, and Pride and Prejudice, all to convince myself that I could be better than this. Perhaps my life could bring a trivial sliver of the excitement that these films can always encapsulate so well.
However, my constant 2 a.m. bedtimes negate this. I again wake up at 10:30 a.m., maybe noon, and look forward to a routine I’ve come to hate. Scrolling, work, dance practice every now and then, a movie I rewatch hundreds of times instead of something new, then a fitful sleep that I can never wake up refreshed from.
Each day, I tell myself that it will be different. I will only look at a device once that morning; I will finally force myself out of bed on time.
Each day, I disappoint myself. Again and again and again.
Writing this now, I have a barely started summer assignment to work on before it’s due in six days. And although I tell myself that I can easily do it, which I can, I can never muster the energy to try.
It seems that my childlike days of wonder and the excitement of the unknown are over.
I keep experiencing disenchantments in my mundane life. For example, ice cream isn’t as good anymore. I used to love the way the sweet, smooth flavor would coat my tongue, always bringing a smile to my face after a hectic day of sun and the smell of fresh grass. Now, it just reminds me of an excess of hope that is never put into reality. The saccharine, sticky taste taunts me, how I tried and tried to savor the days with grace but failed once more.
I throw away each day on the calendar as if it means nothing. I grab my purple marker and scratch off the date, then look at the number. 1. 8. 13. 15. I am reminded of how, on the 11th, I didn’t take any pictures, a rarity for me. On the ninth, I’d forgotten to vacuum my room. Overall, I didn’t even have a single event written for August.
As the hours pass, I look out my library window at the drooping hydrangeas and think about how, every year, I long for summer. Once it arrives, life offers me the cloak of joy, and I take it every time. By July, the cloak has begun to slip. By August, I’d already shrugged the cloak off my shoulders and waited for the other cloak to bade its time.
Every year, I face the fact that I long for a truth unknown: summer will never be as good as the one I constantly wait for.
Now, I can smell the difference in the air. It’s crisp, with the promise of a new season, a new school year, and a new chance that will inevitably only be partially fulfilled.
