My mind is summer now. Languid in its breathing of thoughts and idle in its progression of time. There is a blinding of the heat that is not surprising as it numbs the mind. Time & again it finds a shade of hope only to realise that it was an illusion of my own scorching delusions. The mind orders the body to move and it does move, but only to rest again.

The wind, like the thoughts, is fleeting at the idea of respite. It carries disturbance that is internal and a silence that mirrors the external. Incoherence is the new stasis. A stasis that is here to stay.

Irritation, as internal drums, beat on the walls of my mind. Who would have thought that a mild irritation of the summer would be more uncomfortable for your soul than a throbbing headache of the winter?

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