A Summer Spent in Sepia

My mind favors a fast tempo.  She doesn’t enjoy idle moments, craving the disorienting fever of activity.  And yet my subconscious needs frequent breaks, craving rest from the demands of thought.  I typically resent this need for isolation as it often leads me to spend sunny days staring out of a window.  So many sunny days spent staring out of a window. After all, June is defined by her bipolar emotions. Within her thirty days there is a freedom that quickly turns into captivity; one grows to begrudge June’s endless empty days.  

Here, in my room, on my bed, I occupy my mind with endless shows and drown out my thoughts with endless songs.  I am surrounded by faces—Jimi Hendrix, Joan Baez, Bob Marley, Freddie Mercury—and yet their smiles seem too distant to recreate.  Still, I quite enjoy these posters as their presence serves as a reminder of my creativity, of my ability to have productive days.  (After too many idle days the user begins to feel as though they have lost this ability.) The poster edges have begun to curl up, and I fear they will soon leave my wall, leaving me alone.  

I am surrounded by blue walls, whose cold hues have reflected onto my being and left me with a chill.  And yet, despite the sad impression that my bedroom leaves on me, I do not leave. A strange condition of the human psyche is its tendency to prolong its own despair.  There must be some mold for an artist’s mind, or else there would be no sad music and no sad poetry. For what is their purpose other than to sink deeper into that depression?  I like to believe that evolution has allowed this strange habit to continue for that very purpose: art. Or perhaps some god became too enamored by Achlys and wished to replicate her charming misery.  Whatever the reason, I indulge in my sadness. If I’m being honest, as I often try to be, I began my migration out of self-hatred: lacking energy, lacking motivation, lacking appreciation, lacking.

My bones grow stale and begin to ache, ignoring the warm pillows attempting to comfort them.  Here, in my room, on my bed, I am in that complete isolation which my soul does crave, and yet, I feel an elusive presence.  Each day the force grows stronger, shouts louder: “Go outside. You’re wasting your days.” 

So tired of only seeing the sun’s outline around the closed blinds of my windows, I choose to view her in her authentic form.  As I step out onto my back porch and effectively disown the stagnant artificial light, I am greeted by sepia tones: chocolate wood, peach skies, and the muted yellow of June. The raw sun does little to distort my activities, and yet out here in her light, I feel a strange rejuvenation.  The only sound that accompanies the soft buzz of heat is my dog, whose hunger for my toast has awakened a song. Bork, bork, boof!  Despite his gray fur, his eyebrows remain expressive in their choreography, as if proving his hidden youth.  His eyes, despite the murky blue sheet that flows over their natural brown, remain full of life. And like a puppy, he sits.  He begs. He grows impatient. He stands. He barks. I reprimand. He sits. I look into his cloudy eyes. I melt. I melt like the cascading butter which has caused this incessant begging.  I yield. I give him my toast. He circles around himself—1, 2, 3—before finally lying down.  Finally all elements of my haven are at peace.  

Out here, on my porch, the wind undulates in a peaceful sea of creamy blue. She, like a songbird, seems to harmonize perfectly with the sun, the wind’s melodies softly grazing my skin —pianissimo. The birds reserve their song for interludes, mindful of the rejuvenating effects of silence.  The wicker chair that carries my body has smooth edges, so as not to disturb the surface of my skin.  Every creature and every thing on my porch is considerate. Even the lavender makes a point to send her scent towards me so that I may receive her calming properties. 

In my backyard, on my back porch, I am strangely content with uninterrupted thought.  I think about the fairy lights taped to the ceiling. I think about the great care my father took in their assembly and the look on his face when he turned them on for my sixteenth birthday.  They are dormant now, in the sun’s relentless light, but they still make me happy. I think about the firepit in front of me, the array of friends that have sat around it, and the conversations that it has inspired.  I think about my old dog, whose youth quickly awakens outdoors. I think about how much I miss his youth, and how often he sleeps. I think about the day we brought him home, and the eruption of joy that accompanied it.  I remember sitting in the back of my mother’s Volkswagen thinking to myself that no cuter being has ever and will ever exist. My hands, which were much smaller than they are now, getting lost in a sea of fur. I still lose myself in his cotton fur and firmly believe that there is no softer feeling in the world.  There is no question, then, why I am so in awe of my backyard. From the delicate scent of lavender to the wispy leaves of green, I am surrounded by comfort that even my bedroom sheets cannot rival. Just as my body rests in the wicker chair, my mind rests in this pleasant simplicity. 

My mind favors a fast tempo.  And yet, I quite enjoy this solitude.  For solitude is not the right word, as I have many companions out here: the dog, the birds, the lavender, and the breeze.  There are no cold blue walls, only creamy blue skies. I do not have to worry about missing the sun, for she is ever-present.  And my fears about losing my dog are paused, for right now, in my backyard, on my back porch, he is right beside me.