No painful event has befallen me, though I feel razed. Because of the sun. Unlike children’s crayon drawings, its heat is not orange and welcoming. Its heat is black and foul. Like asphalt. Like pitch.
Summer sops up my vigor. I wake up unwell, unrested, uneven. Inertia anchors me in front of screens. I could watch movies all day. Filling my head with other people’s acted-out emotions whisks me away in 90 minute intervals.
It shall pass. I know, I know, I know. Within a day, within a week, I will be chirping at my family, filled with odd songs and silly dances. Nevertheless, I marvel at how gloriously miserable I can feel when all is well.