The vices of this atrocious summer has made this oppressive silence fall through the heatwaves carrying across the sticky discomfort of the hustle and bustle.
Again the time of the year where dry spell consumes everything that comes across.
From opinions and competition to pollutions and diseases.
From exuberance and life to hopelessness and death.
From emotions and introspections to attachments and detachments.
The leaves are parched with heavenly curses as the sky falls with sunlight wrapped around it.
Blessing from above.
Tickling the bittersweet weather.
I have always been a lover of solitary summers. The ones that intrudes upon our lives when it wasn’t suppose to and often left us in those empty residences at moments so subtly chaotic that we ended up being afraid of the inevitable.
The summertime with varied flavours. The flavours that started from the middle of my tongue and melted onto the delicious life of mine. Flavours of love and loving, betrayed and betraying.
They said, “You have to give first in order to get back.” But all I’ve given through these years have not been well documented. Perhaps, they are in transit through the salted coastal winds? Or being lost just like me?
The monotony of this summer is often invaded by those turbulent gales that sweep the flowers off the plants that crackle upon the distressed heads and for a while comforts my solace, cuddling it in those baby fabrics of love provided by a nature called wrath.
The memories, are diluted with perspiration of sadness. A room full of loneliness awaits in the middle of the night, as I converse with the darkness. The twinkling city lights behind the cold glass of the air conditioner is empathic of my existence. A red light of warning. A green light of approval and mostly white lights of confusion.
The summers are numbered as well, the steps that we took last year through the serene landscape by the lake ,666. The devil’s number you said me once, beaming with a mix of wonder and happiness. The number of times you said you hate me, the day clouds were shrouding this fallen sky, 13. Everything except the sky fell upon me, but summer was sympathizing in those insect buzz. The unlucky number.
The number of times they stitched your wounds after that havoc, 7. It was a vortex of swirling emptiness, that sat on my navel refusing to spread it wings and fly away, as I stared at those coughing and panting corridors. A sad number as I know by now.
And the time you breathed your last, 11:11 pm.
A special time of course.