It has been slug weather, snail weather, sloth weather. Hot sticky weather capable of leaving trails: the sort of weather for spreading out limbs and not moving—not touching anything. Cold drinks are a necessity for sanity and hydration. There is no desire to do much of anything including reading. It takes way too much effort.
The beauty of this kind of weather is that it seldom lasts too long. A few days for the most and then the weather starts to change. Cool breezes beckon and sleep is no longer elusive. It is hard to sleep currently. The other restless night I overheard:
“I want to go somewhere, but I’m here. I’m nowhere. I could go anywhere. But I’m nowhere. I could go anywhere, but I’m nowhere. I’m here. I’m nowhere. But I could be somewhere.”
On and on he talked out on the balcony during the hot, humid night. I could hear him speak through my open window, speak to his buddy.
If you choose this to be nowhere then it is. If you choose this to be somewhere then it is. Dorothy, stop looking for rainbows in the sky. Sometimes they can be found in puddles. Another day, not now, when the air is less humid.
He spoke again the following night but was far less interesting and not nearly as poetic. While warm and slightly uncomfortable I could go to sleep. I drifted away quietly after another neighbour told him to shut up. Tonight should be cooler and the sloth days over.
I am here going nowhere but I am here and it is somewhere.