It Ends or It Doesn't

It has become somewhat of a ritual for me to write about every month in a metaphor like it’s the only way I can seem to grasp time passing and life-changing. July has been a leaky faucet, the drip of the water after I’ve shut it off, barely noticeable at first. As days fly by, the slow dribble becomes a steady stream, and my sink has now overflowed. July is the heat that gathers in your lower belly when you realize that someone you once loved is in the same city as you. This heat, I’m still not quite sure if it’s one of joy or fear, but the anticipation of potentially running into that familiar face, a destiny that may not ever come to fruition, eats away at you whole.

I weep with a July type of fervor, like the humid air that clings to your skin and refuses to let go, even after a cold shower. I ask myself why is it that it is never me enduring the months. Why is it always the months that are passing me by? Like a passenger arriving at the station too late, the train just flying down the tracks, and if I stick out my hand, I can touch it, but only at the risk of losing my limb. To me, a month is never just a month. July is never just July.

It’s my own fault. I can only seem to remember how July feels and never how it really was. I delineate the seasons in my life with biased memories. July was grief; October was anger; January was hopeful; June was nostalgic. I wonder if I am doomed to repeat this cycle every year, not by any accord but by my own. I wonder if my mind, body, and soul understands that it can know others, that it can look forward and experience something new without toiling in yearning for the past. 

July is idle, which is funny because as someone who struggles to accept change, you would think that July is my Bible. But July is not the contentness you find in a comfortable chair or the perfect patch of grass in the park. I feel stuck in July. I feel stagnant in the life I have built for myself, complacent enough to wallow in my misery but not motivated enough to facilitate any real change, any growth. I am laden by all the ideas and dreams of what I can be, what I should be, what it seems like everyone else is doing, that I become ashamed. I can’t bear to face my future because I’m afraid of what it holds. I’m afraid of the mistakes I will make and the people I will love and the people I will lose. 

I don’t know why I can’t express my thoughts without the use of metaphors and analogies. It’s like I can’t truly articulate how I feel without comparison. It’s a nasty habit that bleeds into every part of my life. I can not seem to have a good day without wishing that a ghost from my past was still with me to experience it. Why must I constantly think about what could make this moment better instead of just enjoying it while it lasts? I can’t help but grieve time as it passes even while I am still in it. I am constantly reminded of empty spaces that were once filled with laughter. I always feel that a moment is only half-finished before time has already moved on. It does not wait for me, no matter how much I beg. 

July asks me what I want.

I want to be left alone, so that my mind may have time to grow. I want to fall in love. I want to sit in the grass and watch the sunset by the water. I want to read, constantly. I want to write, consistently. I want to hug my parents. I want to love my friends. I want to think, I want to sleep, I want to look at the stars. I want to cut up fruit. I want to take a hot bath. I want to cook and bake and eat until my belly is full and round. I want to run until my lungs fail me and my legs give out. I want to find God in everything, even though I don't believe in Him. I want to believe in something. I want my life back. I want change. I want to find myself beautiful. I want to find July beautiful.

July asks me what I need.

I shrug. I have never known.