August has skipped itself right out of existence, with nary time for me to put my head down and think. My blogging reflects my life in many ways; when my life is full, my blogging flags. When my life lies silent, my heart seems to stir more towards self-expression.
August has wound itself down, with no respite from the heat. I walk to work from my car and start to sweat at once, the heat a dead weight on my shoulders, the hollows of my eyes full of it. I wait for autumn, for a cool breeze, for nature to turn and say “it’s time to sleep.”
August has worn itself to the bone, the shards fragmented in the last of summer, as kids go back to school and customers come looking for textbooks. I need it today, they say. Well, I think, that’s not how it works. I judge their carelessness while my free time goes to crime shows and fantasy novels.
August has faded to vapor on the wind, and my goals lie still and dormant, waiting for me to pick them up again, dust them off, and take a good look. Do I still yearn for this or that? Do I know what I want? I gave myself six weeks, I think, to get used to working, to get used to being tired again, to get used to aching feet and tired throat and hands sore from pulling and stacking books. Six weeks have come and gone, and where do my plans lie?
August has skipped on by, and now come the heady golden days of September.