"Dreaming of July" by Joelle L.

 

[My writing is meant to be a metaphor for the abstract idea of the rare highs and familiar lows of depression.]

What was once a bothersome sun in April, shines anew in July. The once foregoing, mournful light that glared through my ghost-transparent curtains had begun to shine warmly upon my blankets like that good morning embrace that Mother used to gift to me with each daybreak. My feet had begun to reach the carpet with ease, just as they were lured to those liberating pedals at the base of my drive. Non-complacent roads gave birth to non-complacent thoughts, as the snaking ride slithered through illuminated early-morning trees and shrubs. The thoughts once contained within my skull had been manifested and blossomed into pure-white clouds for all to admire. An unparalleled pair of sun rays and milky cumulus enveloped my ladybug-red car, perforating my dreams until my eyelids precipitated and ranoff down the plane of my face. The sea of white promised to mute the desperate red hue of my vehicle to a soft, rosy pink; thus, a flush of a kindred tint grows upon my newly-watered and flowering cheeks.

 

Such pitiful timing, for I had not cherished the beauty and liberty while it was given, as I anxiously awaited cold winters that brought sobbing clouds. What a joy to live in the moment! If only I took to heart the laughs and smiles while they lasted.

I now drive a car of a white hue, as though it absorbed the cumulus around us and left the atmosphere trapped in an eternal mist. The car, leeched and drained of color, leads us out of the green-packed mountain; the sun follows me down and down. The sun never falls erroneously; the dim night is destined to come. The road turns dingy and feeble, and

the passengers grip the door handles and scream as we descend. They fear not the fall itself, but the dejection of the ride and the grief of losing this fleeting moment.