On the other side of the galaxy/ She was a January girl....
I can't wait.
It's winter, and cold. The chilly air bites relentlessly at my chapped, uncovered face as I hurriedly make the hasty dash from my car to the front door. The warm and sultry breezes of summer seem further away than the pale moon, which hangs in the sky like a snowflake frozen in time. I idly think yearningly on those hot, close afternoons, and then shake it out of my mind as I fumble to unlock the front door. It's practically Christmas, I remind myself- halfway there.
I step into the foyer, kicking the door shut behind me. The resounding thud that rattles through the whole house is familiar to me as my own name- the windows shudder and the attic fan intake high above the stairs quakes with a metallic sort of reverberation. Sighing with exhaustion, I drop my bags next to the floral print couch in the living room, my eyes gliding carelessly over the unlit, undecorated Christmas tree out behind the French doors leading to the patio area.
I pull my feet from my shoes and walk past the windowed stairwell to the kitchen: my only goal in mind is to put some form of sustenance into my rumbling stomach. I open the door to the fridge, sticking my hand in and rummaging around for the bowl of diced pineapple that I know is in there somewhere. The air in the fridge is warmer than the air outside the drawn, curtained kitchen window, though I’m still shivering a little when I pull my hand out from the electricity-cooled sarcophagus, pineapple treasure fast in hand. As I contentedly begin to munch, my mind floats back to summer, pulled back by the sweetness of the pineapple. My hands are sticky with delicious pineapple juice, but I know that if I were to go outside, the uncomfortable glee would turn to pain as the juice became ice on my fingers.
Oh, how I despise cold weather.
I remember, last summer, the best summer of my life. That summer was so much more than these dead, skeletal trees shivering naked underneath the icy sky, white puffs of air billowing around my mouth that make the tip of my nose go painful and pink . Summer wasn’t walking around suffering, suffocating, underneath multiple heavy and cumbersome layers of clothes that constrict my mobility with more effectiveness than a straitjacket. Summer was the undying heat, and the sweet coconut smell of sunscreen, the pleasurable feel of a breeze hitting sweaty skin. It was going to the pool and drinking bubble tea from the little Asian café on the corner. Summer was about sleeping in and spending time with my friends and watching the sun set and the fireflies come out, sleeping with the windows open and listening to a lullaby of crickets as I slipped into sleep. Summer wasn’t about freezing constantly, working too hard; it wasn’t desolate, empty landscapes and a frequent feeling of hopelessness. Summer was warm and fun and friendly, staying up all night playing MMOs and being changed within by the thrill of digital adventure.
But, I remind myself, it’s the ice and the textbooks and the waking up before the sun and freezing my ass off constantly that makes me appreciate the romantic beauty of the relentless heat.
So, freezing, I take my bowl of pineapple and wrap myself up like a burrito in a thick, warm blanket, and settle down in the arm chair by the empty fireplace to wait, and as I wait I close my eyes, trying my very hardest to stretch my imagination into believing that it really, truly is summer.
Props and lots of cosmic brownie points to anyone who can tell me what this is really about.
It's winter, and cold. The chilly air bites relentlessly at my chapped, uncovered face as I hurriedly make the hasty dash from my car to the front door. The warm and sultry breezes of summer seem further away than the pale moon, which hangs in the sky like a snowflake frozen in time. I idly think yearningly on those hot, close afternoons, and then shake it out of my mind as I fumble to unlock the front door. It's practically Christmas, I remind myself- halfway there.
I step into the foyer, kicking the door shut behind me. The resounding thud that rattles through the whole house is familiar to me as my own name- the windows shudder and the attic fan intake high above the stairs quakes with a metallic sort of reverberation. Sighing with exhaustion, I drop my bags next to the floral print couch in the living room, my eyes gliding carelessly over the unlit, undecorated Christmas tree out behind the French doors leading to the patio area.
I pull my feet from my shoes and walk past the windowed stairwell to the kitchen: my only goal in mind is to put some form of sustenance into my rumbling stomach. I open the door to the fridge, sticking my hand in and rummaging around for the bowl of diced pineapple that I know is in there somewhere. The air in the fridge is warmer than the air outside the drawn, curtained kitchen window, though I’m still shivering a little when I pull my hand out from the electricity-cooled sarcophagus, pineapple treasure fast in hand. As I contentedly begin to munch, my mind floats back to summer, pulled back by the sweetness of the pineapple. My hands are sticky with delicious pineapple juice, but I know that if I were to go outside, the uncomfortable glee would turn to pain as the juice became ice on my fingers.
Oh, how I despise cold weather.
I remember, last summer, the best summer of my life. That summer was so much more than these dead, skeletal trees shivering naked underneath the icy sky, white puffs of air billowing around my mouth that make the tip of my nose go painful and pink . Summer wasn’t walking around suffering, suffocating, underneath multiple heavy and cumbersome layers of clothes that constrict my mobility with more effectiveness than a straitjacket. Summer was the undying heat, and the sweet coconut smell of sunscreen, the pleasurable feel of a breeze hitting sweaty skin. It was going to the pool and drinking bubble tea from the little Asian café on the corner. Summer was about sleeping in and spending time with my friends and watching the sun set and the fireflies come out, sleeping with the windows open and listening to a lullaby of crickets as I slipped into sleep. Summer wasn’t about freezing constantly, working too hard; it wasn’t desolate, empty landscapes and a frequent feeling of hopelessness. Summer was warm and fun and friendly, staying up all night playing MMOs and being changed within by the thrill of digital adventure.
But, I remind myself, it’s the ice and the textbooks and the waking up before the sun and freezing my ass off constantly that makes me appreciate the romantic beauty of the relentless heat.
So, freezing, I take my bowl of pineapple and wrap myself up like a burrito in a thick, warm blanket, and settle down in the arm chair by the empty fireplace to wait, and as I wait I close my eyes, trying my very hardest to stretch my imagination into believing that it really, truly is summer.
Props and lots of cosmic brownie points to anyone who can tell me what this is really about.