I love the month of August. I love its blend of softly yearning vowels and consonant ending. I love its temperatures and weather patterns, its smells, and refusal to lay down its youthful greenery for the distinguished blazen hues of aging autumn. I love the slowly building tingle in the back of my brain brought about during sudden changes in lifestyle, like going from near reckless pursuit of enjoyment to the carreled nooks of a university library, even though that period of my life is being quickly dispatched to ‘the past’. It is at once a month of expectations and nostalgia, where the barely processed memories of summer, and the idyllic haze of remembered summers, mingle with the nervous excitement of a new season with hoped for but as yet undisclosed excitements. For me it is a headlong, last-minute, breathless rush to see everyone and do everything possible before winter and a world covered cold and it is that adamance, that defiance to surrender its bouyant enthusiasm that I love the most.


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