102,2

It's the most beautiful weekend of the year. Bright sunlight from early dawn to late at night, warm breezes, glittering water. My newsfeed spills over with pictures of children with strawberries, feet on cliffs, barbecues and boats and a hundred friends gathered at last, while I lie writhing in fevered restlessness, unable to leave my bed. Days and nights swim into each other; I wake up with clothes clinging to my sweaty skin, only to fall asleep shivering just as the sun rises over the trees. I pull the blinds, close my browser, we make jokes but it isn't funny at all, summer slips through my fingers and I am powerless to grasp at it. I cannot even cross the apartment without feeling faint. My innards twist around themselves and wring every last ounce of energy out of me. I am too tired to read, too tired to write. There is no space for anxiety or great revolutions of the heart.

But in the still moments, when there is just enough rustle in the trees to cool the air that sweeps in my window, when there is just enough silence in the street outside that the feeble voice inside my head may be heard, despite the rushing sounds of dehydrated blood past my temples, then I see it so clear.

There is not much time, but there is no stress. There are many questions, but already so many answers. Come fall, it is time for me not to be here anymore. I long now. The darker evenings do not scare me so much. There is a place where the streets never sleep, where the buildings always glitter. There is a place where the darkness cannot reach me.

So I am not scared.