August: the jealous son of July; the undoing of all we build. Everything that begins, no matter when it does, tends to end in August. Stop running, sit down and breathe a little. It is but the second day. We must sit and wonder how yet another year is closer to its end than its beginning. We must sit and wonder if we still have time, and then we must come to the inevitable conclusion we arrive at year after year: there is always time. If it feels like there isn’t any, one might find it is the easiest thing to make, easier than a cup of coffee, a doomed promise or an ill-timed joke.
The year has gone by in a laugh. It seems time moves faster in happiness. Perhaps, this August will be kind, and it will let me pass through unscathed, unaffected, and with the same zeal I have carried myself through this year. I deserve this much, I thought. It is but the second day; it occurred to me again. I must not make pointless dreams; I must make some coffee, and some time, and begin writing. Just this much has pushed me through till here, and just this much will push me through the rest. The days, months and years will pass me by as they do, and I will sit here and write. It is a simple plan, but as most have realised often through history, a simple one will do.
That is all I wish for August, a simple month. A tiny bug walks over the glass window, which shifts my gaze outside at the sky. It is pale, but it has stopped raining after three days of continual deluge. Perhaps, it is not as outlandish an expectation. But then, all expectations are outlandish, and so are all dreams. Yet, we continue to dream, and yet we continue to expect. The human soul is cursed to fail. Everything that is built will someday fall apart. But today is not that day. Today is the beginning of yet another month, and with it, a chance for it to change its ways.