Today was a warm, summer day. These days are few and far between here. You wouldn't think it if you were from England, or Wales... that summer was yet to come, or that April was summer this year, but it was. Since the start of May we have had three warm, sunny days. All the rest have been warm and dull or cool and wet. No hot water on the pavement; no streets warmer than shops. It makes me glad to be going abroad for a week, it's like I need the stupor of endless summer days to charge for the rest of the year. Summer in my mind's eye is always pale, warm yellow... and hazy. Hazy sky like one cloud has been dissolved across it all. Water from the tap not run. Residue. Squinting up at the glowing orb, everything else is like a shillouette. Without days like these it seems like life is one endless procession of similarity, days sliding into each other and nothing ever getting done. I'm aware that this is potentially my last summer where I am free to do nothing. I'm not enjoying it but I know I should be. It's funny how the best times just come upon us without warning, and those planned are startled and uncouth. Today I lay outside letting the heat come down like my body was being ripped apart then reinstated, upgraded. There are few feelings better than roasted skin oily with suncream, washed in a shower you can only manage cool. Cleansing the new model. I want more days like this, I want a run of them, but all I'm given is one. It's unfair, taunting like this.
I haven't done any work for a month. I've felt numb to it. Like I can't work with any vigour if I don't feel it's worth it. Right now it's not worth it. I keep on saying, I will work once I know what I'm working to, or what I'm no longer going to attain. I feel guilty. No-one knows of progress except me. I don't know who to tell because it all seems so suddenly pointless. Runs of cool rainy days wash the passion right out of me and the warm ones take all my energy to suck up. Summer is a funny time, I always long it and my imagination runs away with images of tents on remote beaches and stone ringed fires; bare legs and bare feet and grounds too hot to walk on. The images and reality never correlate. Never. It's like Christmas never being as good as when you are young, except its always never been as good. It's disappointing, but every year there is hope. Hope from the shoots of spring and the ice breakers and day time. I feel as though midsummer comes and it's all downhill from there on. Midsummer was when I was in London. I promised to do something special; we ate burgers in a hotel room. I want so much to feel like I live in the world as its elements but I know I live in the social world and that of entities. It would just be nice to live that dream for a little while.