Summertime

Summer is for bare hands popping bubbles and tossing balloons;

For bare feet feeling the soft green grass;

For bare legs that want to show off a year’s worth of work;

For bare bums of babes that refuse to put on clothes on such a beautiful day;

For bare hearts ready for the ultimate summer love.

Why then do I feel so melancholy, depleted, apathetic, meh?

Have I experienced something so special, so sacred that I cannot recover?

Am I going through the grief cycle and finally hit the depression stage, where I sit

Waiting for acceptance?

I’m tired.

I’m tired from the preparations and anticipations of rejection.

I’m burnt out from setting up high walls to protect me from a small word.

There are things to do: chores, errands, but I feel like sitting here doing

Nothing.

I sit here watching YouTube, searching for the meaning of

Life.

Depression? Maybe, but I feel fine as long as you don’t ask me to do

Anything.

Depression, except the pills say I should be fine.

Depression, except yesterday was okay.

A hug, a touch, a familiar voice, I feel alive,

I feel.

Silence brings apathy on a summer’s day where the ground feels warm beneath my

Feet.

Where I see green grass, blue skies, and children chasing the ice cream truck.

But I see it all from my living room window

and feel it briefly as I walk the dog in and

Out.

Barely acknowledging, barely aware, where I feel I could burst into song or

Not.