Currently Crushing On


Summer Loving with Zhuzh

“I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year.” 
― Edna St. Vincent Millay

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Summer is here to stay, at least that's what we have been led to believe. Because while Spring was full of possibility, Summer has commitment issues. Summer flirts and promises you the world and then it plays games when you make plans and slips away before you've even realised it's over. Summer leaves you out in the cold, exposed without a jacket while it lingers behind the clouds. Taunting you with a promise it won't keep.

I both look forward to and dread the Summer, the season of anticipation where the list of planned activities is always almost longer than the number of sunny days we are allocated. Perhaps if I lived somewhere on the continent I would view the season with less suspicion. Perhaps our relationship would be a little less tumultuous? But I live here, in England where it seems set to remain volatile as I swing between deep love and something a little closer to hate. The optimist in me clings to the hope that this time, this year it will be different and that if it all falls apart for us again that I can live without the warmth and find comfort elsewhere. Perhaps with a book, under a blanket, even as June rolls into July.

I promise myself that I won't wait at home for the summer suns sleepy appearance over the hills in the morning and that I find myself sitting by the window late into the evening, in the hopes that the sky will mellow to red in Shepards delight. Of course, I try in vain to distract myself from it's abscence with indoor plans, occupying my mind with other, even more trivial things. But thoughts inexorably, inevitably turn inwards. Dwelling on the good time seats into my hours and I ache when my love for Summer seemed unwavering in it's hopefulness but leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.  How I yearn for those past sunny days as I recall and dismiss them at will as my moods roll up and down like the unwelcome clouds overhead.

I try to move on. I board planes and I look for summer elsewhere, under a foreign sky. A familiar love in unfamiliar hands. But it's never the same, my excitement fades as I realise that the heat is too dry, the warmth too oppressive. Days trickle on and I begin to feel smothered by my own solution as the need to run returns and instead fly away on silver wings to resume my post. Waiting.  My heart will always lie with our beautiful British Summertime, regardless of how momentarily that love blooms with reciprocation, ever the optimist that it will all work out for us.

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