Murky August Swamp

It's the promise of rain that won't come. Much like the promise of the jog I won't take. The vacation that will not arrive, the school year that will not be postponed, the diet I can not follow. That is what August is. Although the heat has finally broken, it still feels like a hammer to the skull each time I walk outdoors and my odor is in escapable.

My friend, her husband and their babe are moving from New York to Philly and somehow it feels collosal. It is as though the act of leaving the city is somehow a physical manifestation of a larger departure. The comfortable years my friends and I have enjoyed in New York are slowly being replaced with the insular lives of families and the solitude that is the make up of middle age. Each person carries a burden and our outings feel like respite, even consolation. I wouldn't say we are unhappy, I would say that we've embraced bittersweet (I still long for milk though I appreciate dark with new vigor).

France is around the corner. There is the immediate fear of toothpaste, hair gel, liquids and what that really means, but beyond that there is a greater distress. My summer time is ending quickly. My clear head is about to get murky.