June. Of all the months in the calendar year, I dislike June the most. And yet that made me wonder what my favourite month was. And would you believe it? I actually think it’s June. I love it and hate it at the same time. For so many reasons. For so many years. For most of my life, really.
I hate June. I actually hate June. I hate the dark days, I hate the cold mornings, I hate the short days, I hate the cold. I hate how it’s so miserable all the time. I hate it. The more I think of it, the more I hate June. And yet, I love it as well. I love the cold, I love the cold nights, I love lying in bed, snuggled up. I love hot coffee on a cold morning, I love wrapping my hands around a hot cup of anything, as it warms up my hands. I love dressing in the cold, wearing scarves, gloves, boots, stockings. I love walking the streets, the trees bare, or almost bare from shedding leaves.
Every year, without fail, in January, I long for June. I actually long for June. In April, every year, I wish that June would hurry up and arrive. In May, ever year, I dread June. I don’t want it to come. And yet when it does come, I want it to be over, and never end, at the same time. At the very same time. Like right now, I wish it would end. And yet I don’t want it to end either. I don’t want the month to be over, as much as I want it to be over. Does this make any sense?
June has typically been my month of hibernation. For as long as I can remember. Even when I was little; I remember June the most, and I’ve always hated it. I’ve always hated June. I hated my birthday being in June. I always dreaded my birthday. Hated it arriving with a passion. These days, I just accept it. I don’t remember the warmer months. It’s always June. Everything seems to happen in June. I’m at my most miserable in June. I’m at my most lethargic in June. But I’m at my most inspired in June too. My most inspirational dreams are in June. My worst are also in June. I get lost in June. I get lost in my own little world in June. I withdraw into myself in June. It’s as if I’m a different person in June. Well, maybe not, but I feel it inside me. I’m not the same in June. Sigh. Always. Such a paradox, this month for me. It’s the cold. It is. It’s the dark days. I have so many significant memories in June. Memories I’d rather forget, a lot of them. Just sad memories, but the cold always brings them back. But I have some amazing ones too. Amazing. And the cold always brings them back too.
Which would I prefer? Wiping away all the memories, or keeping them? Gimme the memories. The good ones always outweigh the sad ones. And I wouldn’t who I am without both, right?
June. Another twelve more days til the end of the month. Sigh.
I hate June. I actually hate June. I hate the dark days, I hate the cold mornings, I hate the short days, I hate the cold. I hate how it’s so miserable all the time. I hate it. The more I think of it, the more I hate June. And yet, I love it as well. I love the cold, I love the cold nights, I love lying in bed, snuggled up. I love hot coffee on a cold morning, I love wrapping my hands around a hot cup of anything, as it warms up my hands. I love dressing in the cold, wearing scarves, gloves, boots, stockings. I love walking the streets, the trees bare, or almost bare from shedding leaves.
Every year, without fail, in January, I long for June. I actually long for June. In April, every year, I wish that June would hurry up and arrive. In May, ever year, I dread June. I don’t want it to come. And yet when it does come, I want it to be over, and never end, at the same time. At the very same time. Like right now, I wish it would end. And yet I don’t want it to end either. I don’t want the month to be over, as much as I want it to be over. Does this make any sense?
June has typically been my month of hibernation. For as long as I can remember. Even when I was little; I remember June the most, and I’ve always hated it. I’ve always hated June. I hated my birthday being in June. I always dreaded my birthday. Hated it arriving with a passion. These days, I just accept it. I don’t remember the warmer months. It’s always June. Everything seems to happen in June. I’m at my most miserable in June. I’m at my most lethargic in June. But I’m at my most inspired in June too. My most inspirational dreams are in June. My worst are also in June. I get lost in June. I get lost in my own little world in June. I withdraw into myself in June. It’s as if I’m a different person in June. Well, maybe not, but I feel it inside me. I’m not the same in June. Sigh. Always. Such a paradox, this month for me. It’s the cold. It is. It’s the dark days. I have so many significant memories in June. Memories I’d rather forget, a lot of them. Just sad memories, but the cold always brings them back. But I have some amazing ones too. Amazing. And the cold always brings them back too.
Which would I prefer? Wiping away all the memories, or keeping them? Gimme the memories. The good ones always outweigh the sad ones. And I wouldn’t who I am without both, right?
June. Another twelve more days til the end of the month. Sigh.
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