The August winter.

You'd think that with a year's worth of papers finished, self journey's explored, tragic episodes ended, flowers of romance burned and forgotten, chimed along with the swift smell of blowing leaves, clay, and potpourri, I'd be happy. Carefree. Weightless. Perhaps content. Yes, even for someone like me, the overly-dramatic-never-satisfied-girl, I could be content. At ease. Done. But no, I'm not. Yeah, it's that simple. I'm not.
Because, for whatever reason, perhaps being the absence of the fireflies outside my window, the uneasy smell of cat puke continuously being replaced on the carpet, fear of a friend lost, or just PMS...there is a silent weight on my shoulders. Invisible and coy, it tricks me into believing it's disappeared, gone off to haunt somebody else's summer being. And I breathe. I breathe long, and hard. Even more depressing, after that supposed-to-be sigh of troubles lifted, I'll realize that my sigh was an awkward heave. A slow, sad, dead thing that nobody wants to be around. Yes, that IS the sound of my sigh. Tsk, tsk...WHAT a disappointment.
But let me tell you another thing, once you've let out a supposed-to-be-happy sigh, and it turned out like cracked, dead leaves...you soon find that your body has gotten so used to checking it's sighs that you actually can't stop sighing. It's true. Believe me. Crazy, and stupid. However, even in a sad, desolate situation such as this one, I've managed to squeeze SOME humor out of it. And here's the thing:
You look hilarious. Just down right funny. I mean, what would you think if you saw some angst-looking, ripped-jean-wearing, neon-striped teen taking heavy sighs uncontrollably? Trust me, you'd laugh your ass off. Ah, aren't sighs the best medicine?

'Cause behind that door, there's nothing to keep my fingers warm
And all I find are souvenires from better times
before the gleam of your taillights fading east
to find yourself a better lie.'
{Title And Registration, Death Cab For Cutie}