August is the only true summer month. The earth has soaked in the scorching sun of July, fuming with a matte orange that paints the sky a hazy blue. Nature is telling you to stop working, stop thinking, stop doing anything really. Just stay and remember.
Nothing really happens in August. You can ask. Nothing is happening. So, you can exist. You can wander around your house in the afternoon, a wasteful summer noon, your mind focusing and unfocusing on the minor shuffles of your mind, like a camera trying to capture the ever elusive smirk on a woman's lips, and go through the old dusty boxes in the attic, and play a record, focusing on the subtle scratches.
Or, you can be bold and go for a swim in the lake where a rope dangles from a yielding tree.
I remember as a kid the bittersweet taste of looking at the calendar, knowing that my school bag was waiting for me, patiently. 31 more days. Yet, time was gentle and generous. It'd stretch and bend, giving me room to enjoy the stillness of it all.
August is the only summer month. You're dizzy and drunk with the excessive freedom that comes with sitting on your porch for too long. It's like falling into a sweet slumber, crickets whistling in your dreams.
You never really sleep, do you? You only close your eyes and dream, dream deeper than ever before because there's nothing else to do.
Your heart is broken during August, summer has betrayed you; it's going to end. Like a lover, it kisses gently goodbye for a moment that you make it last forever.
I don't think you can escape this patch of time. You're spellbound by the hypnotized journey of lone white clouds shrouding the dim sun.
The beach becomes an endless field of dunes, alive and twisting under your feet. You don't go swimming anymore. You just look at each other, understanding the predicament you're all in. Holding a slipping beer in your hands you shout: Hey, when are we leaving? Never, they respond and shrug.
August is the only summer month. The cold swooshes of wind begin to advertise autumn. It's the New Year in a few days, and you better get ready. But not now, not never. Today is when you stay up until the sun comes up and hug your friends. Tomorrow is all the same.
Everyone is sad because they won't be sad anymore. They won't be allowed to be sad. Things will be real and that's why you smell the fruit and ride your motorcycle on the dirt road. The dust makes them taste better.
I don't need money in August -- it takes care of me. You want to be a little hungry and weak and dizzy. It's all a dream after all. Work is not permitted. All I need is my pack and one more to share.
I smoke because it's only today that the smoke will burn my lungs and heal my heart. I let it burn my fingers and remind me where I am.
August is the only summer month. If you don't believe me, look at my face. Dry and scathed, it remembers everything.
August is the only true summer month. Nothing really happens. You can ask.
Omg riddles give me anxiety, can i phone a friend?!? But when i searched "spiteful or stupid" one entry that was generated was "prick" so i'm gonna say - You are the Adriatic Sea!
This was so spot-on, and love how you personified the sea. As i was reading the crickets and porches and heat, I assumed you were in the midwest, until you were talking to the sea. . . August must be similar in many locales