When I want to write I find myself writing of the past-- the summers summers summers sequentially until they all started to blend and dull. My experiences have blurred along with my vision, the edges not as crisply etched into my long term memory along with the smells and sounds of the moment. Soon the crickets will start chirping full force again, and the nights will be days of their own as the sun divides itself into millions of streetlamps that line the roadways of June, July, August. Does the tipping timelessness of summer exist everywhere, or is it only found in places where the air is heavy with seawater, soundwater, well past midnight? Places my tires have worn thin with routes they take over and over and over.
Roll down the windows and breathe it in, your summers, your youth, still hanging in the heavy midnight air. This place remembers. It fills your heart to bursting with everything that once was and everything to soon be. Every breath. Every breath. This place. This place. This life. This life.