It’s not about the warmth being depressing. It’s about it feeling suffocating, remind you of past occurrences, shouting in your ear the memory of what once was. It’s the wide open feeling. Not being able to hide behind fabric, not being able to be cold and feel the relief of warm showers and warm clothes.
It’s the sun. The way it burns. The way it leaves marks on you, the pain it causes, crawling up your spine not allowing the past to leave you. It’s the bugs. How they bite. How they remind you of days spent outdoors, when you left burnt and bitten and heartbroken.
It’s the bright sky. Reflecting every imperfection, no darkness to cover anything. Darkness makes everything beautiful. In the sun you can see everything. In the sun you remember everything.
In the summer. It will be the very first spent God knows where. Where you spent so much time in stuffy buildings, in outdoor spots of so called praise. Where your clothes stuck to your skin and your breath caught, not from exhaustion but from the screaming pain of the present. But this time the present will be elsewhere. What a gift. Who knows what could transpire.
Gone, further from the sun yet closer to it than ever. Never once have I looked forward to the suffocating season.
But this time, I just may be, as everything has changed. I will always crave the winter months. But the summer can’t bring me as much pain, if I’m not where it gave it to me the most.
I go now only where I wish to, only where I am brought contentment.