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The Months

By @Mo_Finn

(Upsetting Content Viewer Discretion is Advised)

Perhaps I would have run. That is if there was any physical thing to run from. The breeze gently wraps itself around me, offering a shivering hug. There is no warmth in this cold night air. I had assumed when I walked out that there would be. It’s still August. Summer would not flee so quickly from me or so I had thought. No, I would bask in the warmth of the humidity and that would be enough to keep me grounded here– in August. The cold breeze returns to me though as it tickles the edges of my skin. Inviting me to slip away if just for a moment. Like a rip current in an ocean. You don’t feel danger until you turn and you are too far from shore. Too far to have any chance of turning back. So I let the cold gentle breeze grab hold of me and pull me down with it.

There isn’t anything to find below the surface. I’ve known that for a while yet some days you’ll still find me there searching. In the depths of my mind, there is nothing but rotting memories trapped in an overheating room. The moist salty air is harsh and thrashes around my skull. If I had any ability to think straight perhaps I could pull myself out but the smell of the rotting memories is keeping me grounded here. In desperation, I try to think of August. Of gentle breezes and shivering hugs. August is sandwiched in-between July and September. July,so hot and sticky, where silent nights aren’t a welcoming relief. Instead, a night alone is a cruel awakening to my lonesome reality. There are fireworks and festivals and amusement parks and pools and yet all I’ll ever remember is the afternoon thunderstorm that rocked the house. Where the power went out and I was too scared to move, the darkness so still yet swallowing everything around me. Then September the violent awakening to the real world. Whereas July is a distant nightmare and August a calming relief September is the alarm to get up. There is no quiet that the summer brings only yelling and movement to jolt you awake. It’s a quick violent tugging thrashing you through rolling waves. There are dishes to clean, people to see, places to go, work to do, but I can never seem to move fast enough.

As if it knew my mind was wandering, the waves pulled me just above the newfound comfort of my rotting room. The burning grounding smell, that had somehow found some way to comfort my soul, was ripped away. Replaced with a suffocating drowning feeling. If there was anything to feel I wouldn’t be able to, my head was too fuzzy from the lack of air. So here I sit in the blissful nothing that is the ocean.

Then suddenly it is not July, September, August, or the suffocating sea. Instead, it is December. Cold and forgetful. I sit here wondering how long it has been December. Perhaps, many months ago, I missed the wake-up alarm. As it rang densely in my skull that had long been submerged under the waves. My limbs feel heavy, as if frozen, but that fails to keep me grounded here. I desperately push away from December. Dragging the dead weight I assume is my arms up as I reach for anything that can help me stand. The sharp wind curls around me once again to pull me through whatever hell awaits me next. Suddenly though it is as if it does not matter what month the wind pulls me to, none of it keeps me grounded. The whirl of sounds, colors, and smells give hints of January, February, and March. Slowly but surely I can hear the sounds of birds chirping; the smell of petrichor fills the morning air. It rained last night but I’m not sure when last night was. April is close, warm, and safe, but the wind here is violent. Whatever peace the spring brings doesn’t last and summer blaring heat is around the corner. Every time I wish everything would slow down.

Yet I know it won’t.

The wind returns, circling back yearly. Sometimes I wonder if it has stopped. I try to think of a time when it had just let me be and all that comes to me is something rotting in the salty air. Humidity wrapped too tightly to be a blanket, instead of as an attempt to suffocate me with moisture. Even this memory has long since been blown away. A distant part of me knows that the wind is not the only thing to blame for my troubles. There is some comfort in never knowing the date. Some part of me is praying that the wind will carry me away, whether it be cold, gentle, violent, or sharp. Anything to not be grounded here, whenever that is. I would not have run. I know this now, and perhaps I always have.

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