July 20, 2003
Summer Slummin'
I feel like autumn already, my mind clogged like a gutter with russets and browns and pumpkin oranges. How is it only mid-July, and me trapped within it?
I feel guilty when I shop. Isn't that positively horrible? My new clothes are tainted by my shame at buying them. But they're so cute.
Did I type that outloud?
I couldn't sleep last night for thinking of my mother, and for my ears fixing themselves on the sounds of Halo drifting down the hall from the living room. Mike came to bed much later, exclaiming at how warm I was. I know now it was a combination of binding sheets and the heat of my dreams clinging to my skin.
Something had to.
I feel like curling up in my dad's room with Garth Nix's Lirael and not getting back up again until I have finished it. Not even to pee. Today is too thick, too empty, it's nearly evening but I'm itching for darkness, enveloping. Even then, I'll be trapped here, of my own accord.
Why can't we curl up together, dear? Will you be bent on house cleaning tonight? Why can't it be wintertime and snow outside and the two of us warming things up inside? It's too hot for proper love in the Cincinnati river valley, in July and eighty-percent humidity and my body feeling heavy with sweat and a small lunch.
Why can't I feel comfortable? Why can't I look at my body in these jeans and be contented instead of squirming with disgust?
I'll just sit here and imagine the leaves falling off the trees, the proper occupation of class, a light sweater, adventures to be had. Today, the seas have dried up and we cannot go pirating. The fields are on fire and too ashy to be pillaged.
The. Heat. Is. On.
Top. Of. Me.
astera at 5:20 p.m.