Okay I admit it,

I hate summer.

Stepping outside of my precious air conditioned studio apartment

into a hot tub from hell 

is the worst part of my day.

I don’t enjoy being sweaty and feeling my pale skin burn after 5 minutes of outdoor time.

I love being outside.

I want to go on long walks, smell the flowers and all that nonsense,

but in the summer,

I recluse.

This is my hibernation.

The only thing I look forward to is swimming in as many bodies of water as possible.

There is a freedom in free floating,

burying my troubles under the surface

staring into the glitching sunlight

through gentle waves of blue ripples.

Maybe brown ripples if we’re talking Tennessee lakes,

but really if I can sink in it, 

then I’ll swim in it.

That kind of applies to my emotions as well

The deep end calls out to me,

trenches filled with dark magic sing to me in siren songs

as if we’re kindred.

I want to go where no one else has ever gone

grab a souvenir from the depths that seem to terrify those who enjoy small talk,

and show my work.

I want to show everyone the evidence I found 

to show them that even the dark scary parts of yourself are still worth exploring.

In fact maybe those are the parts that are in dire need of exploring.

Maybe that’s art in a way.

Creatives seek to experience the trenches or are tasked with doing so

just so onlookers can look at the art created

and feel safe and seen.

We value art because we relate to it or it makes us feel safe enough to experience feelings that might not feel so safe on our own.

What a beautiful, terrifying thought.

So I spend my summers in sadness, diving into the waters that call me

and then autumn is there to recklessly share with divine warm colors and bonfire show and tells,

winter settles in brilliant silence where I polish the art by firelight like sterling silver used for holiday dinners,,

and spring returns with blooming art. 

I spent months sewing seeds I’m truly proud of, 

showering them with the water I saved from the trenches,

and the soft pastel victories lull me into a kind slumber, 

preparing me for the next dive.

– becca tremmel