I have found that summer no longer thrills me as it once did. Back when summer meant freedom from the drudgery of rote learning in a classroom full of half-wit children who enjoyed stuffing me into lockers, it was something I much looked forward too. Now, apart from the week I spend at the beach walking along the shore, sunning in the lovely sea breeze, reading, and yes, writing, it has lost much of its former appeal.
And summer has arrived again, not as that charming sunny few months of freedom spent at the pool, the beach, and scampering about the creeks, rivers, and lakes of my childhood. Summer, for me, has become yet another harbinger of passing time. A resource that can’t be bought or bargained for. Yes, I will enjoy my week on the shore in a couple of weeks. But for the moment, it is too hot and too light.
Perhaps, age is darkening me, but I find I write best when the outside world is asleep and full of ghosts. A long summer rain works well, but sunlight distracts me. Not in a come hither sort of way, but in that annoying manner that irks a classic vampire who must be confined to his coffin until the night. So in the summer, I get less sleep as I wait for the sun to go down. Daylight savings time is a wretched curse drawing the light out so long into the evening. Then when all is quiet, gloom creeps across the sky, and there is nothing but the muggy heat left from the day, I can exist for a while. Only when I am writing do I truly feel alive. Otherwise, I am merely a pale imitation of life, simply going through the motions. A pretender playing at being a human.