July 9, 2015
It’s hard to write you because I’ve worked 8-hour-closing-shifts for more days than it seems possible, and in my haze of work and sleep I’ve grown melancholy again.
I’ve always been the strange kid who finds summer unbearable, you must know that by now July, as you and I always meet when I am in depression.
You, July, often see me at my worst, when my body begins to grow heavy.
Heavy with guilt, for not getting out of bed until evening. Heavy with all the food I hate moving sluggishly through my body. Heavy with the absence of beloved friends who I swore I’d see. Heavy with the sadness of few plans, and few people who I’m sure don’t even think of me.
These days I think about money and whether or not I am ever going to be truly happy. I think about love and whether I’ll ever deserve it.
I know I have these moments of profound introspection and reflection, and I know that I’ve grown a lot.
But July, you bring the quiet before the storm, you silence the noise of fake friends and faux happiness and leave me here to reflect on the seemingly emptiness that surrounds me.
How can I say this when I love so many people and often become overcome with inspiration and gratitude? I don’t know. That’s the scary part. I see beauty and inspiration all the time, but when the noise dies down and I’m left just myself, I feel nothing. I am nothing.