Cruel Summer

I wish my mind was preoccupied with summer sales. But no keen interest was ever taken in adding clothing to the closet as a function of hobby or summer.

There is a big fat book to be balanced on my head and I must learn to walk with it gracefully. But I stumble and poise is out of the question much like piano lessons are to the street-squatter.

Why isn't summer an absolute of warmth, sunshine and fun?
Of summer holidays without summer schools, of carefree runs across the lawn dotted with potted plants along its circumference.
Of the pleasure the banging of the 'jaali' doors gave in quiet afternoons that put everyone to sleep.

But none of this is really what I wish to say.
My journal requires my brutal honesty. Mute requires me to be evasive, unnaturally unemotional.

I wish to be neither.

Summer can be difficult too sometimes.