We already know this as humans that things change. Everything changes. Sometimes it’s gradual and occurs so slowly that one day you open your eyes and feel your breath catch at the sight before you. Other times, it’s so quick that no matter how many times you look at the change, over and over again, you can’t bring yourself to fully understand how much it’s not the same.
Summers are like that. Each summer has its own flavour and its own unique changes that make it what it will be in your memories. You sort through each of these archetypes that you have built and ask yourself what each summer is and how they changed from one to another. Did you adventure on the train to Kansas and Colorado? Did you go to nerd camp and Kansas City? Did you leave on a whirlwind trip that took you half of the way across the world and challenge every preconceived notion that you had of another country? What did you learn in that summer when you stayed home reading 500,000 words of fanfiction and planning a zombie-themed dance? And what did you learn when you got your first summer job and spent two weeks trying to hide? Or when you realised that it would be the last summer with her and last cruise and last anything?
This summer is met that flow. It’s a question of what I’ve learned and what has changed. Between friends being more or less scattered because of university, to the family dynamic completely changing from Grandma’s death. From feeling more grounded in Saint Charles due to my job and having broken up with my boy-friend (and here I didn’t even tell you that story, and it has already ended). There’s a natural progression that is both frightening and welcome because it is the meaning of what it is to live.
Living can be difficult. Feeling can be difficult. Waking up in the mornings to a task you don’t want to do can be difficult. Taking pills, testing your heart, doctors visits. They can drain you slowly, but they can’t slow down what a summer can do to the body. How much more alive I, personally, can feel from the rest. I can feel the change, feel my joints go out of socket less and need less sleep. Slow moving, but there.
It’s strange how I forget about this place. I forget that I can write here because I’m so busy writing on tumblr. Granted, it’s not personal writing but fiction, but nonetheless, I’ve become amazed at how much I’ve written in the past few months. Thousands upon thousands of words with some truly amazing people. And there were some questions upon writing yesterday that reminded me of this. Reminded me of Germany and the Roessles und die perfekte Welle und der perfekte Tag. All of it came rushing about again, which brings back all of those memories that, if you’ve read anything here, you know that I still hold dear. Scarcely a post goes by that I don’t at least briefly mention Germany.
Things change. They truly do. But some things stay fairly static inside of their change. And maybe that’s Germany. Maybe that’s what it is to remember and hold on to something so tightly.
Das ist die perfekte Welle
Das ist der perfekte Tag
Lass dich einfach von ihr Tragen
Denk am besten gar nicht nach
Ich bin hier
Ich bin frei
–Perfekte Welle, Juli