mean feelings

we’d entered that part of July where the days begin to swallow themselves
—Bryan Washington, Lot: Stories 

Technically, my shadow is shorter in the summer. All that light absorbs.

I, as audience, am distracted and bored. I recognize how my obsessive seasonal observations are necessary in this never-ending series of California summers. This persistent consistency starts to feel unrecognizable as ignoring rising heat signatures on concrete. Not unlike how the ultra wealthy call interactions with other humans “touch points”. It’s more like the theory that black holes have been singing for billions of years.  The darkness around us is deep vibe.

I can’t afford the apps that sell healing frequencies by the hertz.

Venus is currently retrograde in Leo, which echoes the apparent motion set in late summer of 2015. It was not the first summer you disappeared in dramatic fashion. Yet another resurrection with the burden resting on proof of return. I told no one to act as if it never happened. I was like the California sun—indifferent to the calendar season.

Our collective horrors are not equal. Neither are the songs we sing to self-soothe. Instead, teach me the wonder of your despair without ever touching me. Listen to my empty hands.