Summer.

It's summer.

Yet, here u won't see anything other than autumn. No scorching hot sun, no cicada fused into a single multi-million-antenna body chorusing in the early morning, no dampened sweat, no ice-cream, no flip-flop. Only the rustle of the yellow leaves, the crisp autumn air, the sulky river, morning dew.

What i felt this afternoon cutting my path through the outdoor multi-purpose ground was one of hollowness. Stifling hollowness indeed. And severed entrails. The grass that just sprouted on the ground, flowers that await blooming, leaves that fell from the trees, everything blended onto a single blurred image. The sky was very blue indeed - a sweet unblemished blue that is here and there tainted with silky threads of white clouds. Yet it was a definite, unquestionable kind of blueness - the kind of precarious, outright and unconcealed lust that is felt by looking at a beautiful girl. Voluptuous was the mountain line, far-stretching was the sky - all exerting their physical existence as if to mock the melancholy mind.

And there goes the song

Eyes to heaven
White clouds in the perfect blue
No trace of God in the sky
Those slow clouds in the haggard blue

The sun floods the sky
Spending my winter days forgetting you
When every second is a handful of earth
When every minute
Is a sob
See how I struggle
See how much I lose
Of blood and water
Of blood and water

When every second is a handful of earth
When every minute
Is a vault

See how I struggle
See how much I lose
Of blood and water
Of blood and water

Alone in a little town. Outside, the cicada goes on with their incessant perpetuated chorus. The cicada must get excited because of summer too. And what would be the sounder way to call attention to their existence other than to use what they're inherently blessed with: their voice. But trust me, it is not such a delightful experience, being surrounded by million cicada-infested jungle; no matter how peaceful it may look, the internal is real chaos. 

Yesterday lying on bed, i felt my entrails being severed. Like a finger cut from the hand. My only symbol of joy and pleasure and of unlimited accompanied indulgence, the last vestige of my reinforced other self, has gone. Yet not gone for good. I know we'll see each other again. The most important thing is that we won't betray each other. Or I won't betray my feelings. I take my memories with utmost care - put them in a box, in a tidy manner, sorting out days and months, with exquisite concern as to details, smell, sounds, looks. Yet somehow the memories just keep floating in the air - in the middle air, not vaporizing, not instilling. Romatically sad like the scent of summer sky. Like the lonely chanting of cicada. Like the dismay look of a girl, mourning her happy times, looking out of the window, wishing the cicada would stop singing, yet cannot afford to digest the awareness of her own physical existence, while the latter keeps devouring her, permeating her body, weaking her will.