July is on fire. It burns. It burns freely, wildly, nothing to stop it but some far off hope, a coming rainstorm or a blast of change.
July tries to make you think it’s slow; it lulls with empty hours and searing heat.
July is the middle of the year. It celebrates independence; it has to. The ideal of July is a fiery individualism, seldom reached but celebrated as though it’s universal.
July is just waiting to turn a corner, dulled and slowed, looking for the next adventure. July is a cradle, a set of bookends looking back and forth for something to hold.
July is a rickety footbridge crossing a dry creek and though I’ve marched more than halfway across already, I’d still like to turn back. I’m not ready for those August banks.
I’ve done my best to embrace July – its heat, its oppression, its long days and nights indistinguishable from one another – because if I don’t there’s a good chance it’ll kick my ass. Surviving July is like running with the toughs, just for a while, just to get to the next part of town, to hitch along ‘cause there’s nothing else to do.
July can’t help but bring thoughts of January, but they’re vague, the shadows of good memories, with none of the bad.
July is an adolescent who steals smokes and flicks the butts at people’s heads, laughing like he’d invented the whole gig.
July is a desert acting like a peacock, flexing his muscles in a big-time show of dominance and power.
July almost – almost – shouldn’t be natural, or legal.
Just try to shepherd yourself all the way through July without getting cut or lost somehow, floundering drunk-like in the heat or the storms or the hours that have stacked up when you weren’t looking.
July isn’t big on alternatives.
July shouldn’t have four letters, it should have 17, all spiky and thorny, filled with Ys, Ks, Ms, Vs and at least three Ws. YVKWWMMYYMMWWKVVK – that’s more like it.
July sure as hell ain’t gonna take you seriously.