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The alarm goes off. You hit snooze. It goes off again. Snooze,
snooze, snooze, snooze. The sleep isn’t bad and the snoozing
actually keeps you from feeling the blues. It’s the middle of
summer and while it seems to you everyone is off hitting the beach,
going out every night and having a fling it seems you have to
harness all the energy from the sun just to get both feet off the
floor and stand up.
You don’t know how it happened. It’s as if
some sort of grim gas stealthily made it’s way into your room over
the weekend rendering you dazed, wide-eyed, paralyzed and ironically
gleeful at the prospect of spending the days magnificently wasting
away.
You’ve got the summertime blues and as the
song goes, there supposedly ain’t no cure for it. So do you just
take that to be gospel, sink back into that shadowy, inky feeling or
do you conduct experiments in the laboratory of life to find one?
Ahhh, but any decent experimenting is going to have to take you away
from your cozy little gloom cocoon.
Over the course of discovering this diagnosis,
you casually mention it to a kind soul who sends you a text message.
They ask why? Or what ever is it that brought this dark mood on. You
give it some thought and it would be great if you could cram the
explanation down in the tiny little window of a cell phone for their
benefit. But you can’t seem to bottle it all in one neat
statement. As Sawyer on Lost would say, “I’m a complex kinda
guy.”
And while it’s hard to imagine yourself as
castaway lost at sea in this city of millions upon millions of
people tightly packed like sardines, you do feel lonely. Even when
you live with seven other housemates you feel alone. But it’s not
like you haven’t had any exquisite little “moments.” But
they’re just that, moments. Like enchanted incense that stirs your
senses but eventually just wafts off and drifts into the air, into
near nothingness.
People, moments which you feel you’ve just
borrowed from a giant, floating, mysterious “Library of People and
Moments.” You’re only allowed to borrow them for a limited
amount of time though, then they have to be returned—to their real
owners, to the people borrowing them next, to the next scene in the
movie of their lives.
The summertime blues, the name sounds seasonal
but it seems the elusive balm to soothe it isn’t in a series of
temporary, fleeting instances like tide foam but a comfort that’s
real, not just for lease but for keeps. So here’s a spiced rum
toast to finding treasure to call your own this summer.
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