It must be summer, 'cause the days are long...

5 years later, there's a part of this entry that still applies to my life. I can feel the fear bubbling up inside of me. Someday the fear will break and the sun will be a relief.





'The summer had always been the cruelest to her. Which, when she thought about, didn't surprise her in the least. The snow, the rain, sat by her bed and stroked her hair. The cold weather had a way of crawling under the covers with her and looking at her with sympathetic clouds. "I know" it would say. "It's such a tragedy" it would say. The sun, however, did not offer comfort. It dried her up and made her go without. While others waited all year long to shed their heavy coats and dawn their drugstore sunglasses, she had to force herself to open her window and let the winter air out. She dreaded the long nights and the lonely thoughts that were brought on by the inability to sleep in hot, tangled linen sheets. The only peace she found came from the long midnight drives she took through the town when everyone had fallen asleep. She weaved in and out down the clustered green roads with her hand out the window, stretched as far as she could reach. She drove until her grip on the steering wheel loosened, until her eyes were stuck open in a zone of exhaustion. She drove until she had listened to the same song so many times she forgot there was music playing at all. Until midnight turned to morning and she could go home knowing she had been somewhere, if only around and around and around. She searched those winding country roads for a sign that her life would someday take on the physical adaptation of the way it played out in her head. That her intense love would someday find it's way into something tangible. She drove the same roads night after night, over and over. It had to be there, she thought. Somewhere in the green hills, down under the trees maybe, where the cows sought shelter from the same unrelenting summer sun. Hidden, presumably lifeless in the great lush of all the June greenery. Or maybe it was waiting to explode with the fireworks in a blast of hot Fourth of July sky. So she searched at night when the stars came out. And in the morning, when she awoke blurry eyed with the birds and the buzzing of another searing August day, she glanced again at the empty spot on her dresser where she was saving a place for her fate. And she did not tell of where she had been, or why she closed her curtains against the blare and hid for another day, from the sun. Because the summer had always been the cruelest to her.'