Write a story

And then there is the approach of Autumn and September impatiently tapping at the window, intimidating August, chasing it away. I reach out my hands in an attempt to catch hold of it, but it is already overshadowed by distance, one step removed. Only yesterday it was April and there was the whole of Summer; it was a time of promise and hope. I naively believed that I deserved it, that I would be delivered unblemished months. It was such a bad winter, so very long and cold.

But here I am on the edge of the season, dragging so that I might stay in the last remaining days, delaying the inevitable, clinging to the dream of what should have been but somehow never was.

I try not to run and hide. I try not to dig down and away. I try not to block my ears and shut my eyes against all that is external. I try to remain calm and composed. I choke back the tears and hold in the screams. I lie to protect myself. I pretend and escape into fiction, creating a world in which to remain when everything about me changes. 

All attempts at sharing, explaining, making myself heard and understood, are met with confusion. It seems that I am the only one within my tight circle prepared to acknowledge the effect of the environment upon the quality of each day, the power the elements have. Or perhaps I am just more sensitive than the majority of other people and incorrectly placed on the globe?

My parents accept that Summer is unreliablet – short and damp, a disappointment. They put it down to its nature and the effects of Global Warming upon the environment. My friends seem not to worry. My partner grumbles as he picks up his coat, resprays his shoes and reaches for his umbrella, but only I seem to feel the crushing weight, only I take it personally. My outlook leaves me no choice. I am not master to my emotions.

I try to be strong and to remain positive, to appreciate the pleasant days. I try not to look ahead to the precious few remaining. It is hard and the effort tiring. There is no getting away from the inevitablet – the reality that, no matter what I do, October will upend me. November finish me off. As it is, August has done a fine job.