letters to july \\ 17

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Dear July,

Anesthetic makes one’s brain a funny place for a while. You fall into a deep and dreamless sleep via sickly sweet scented gas or liquid ebbing through your veins, and after a previously estimated period of time you wake up in a tiny sterile room made of a wall or two and a couple of floor-length curtains, quite unsure of yourself and the world. After a couple of minutes, you regain your awareness and remember who and where you are, and why that is so. But for the rest of the day, your mind is reminiscent of a thick autumn fog. You forget to put the soup back in the fridge, you trip easily over your own feet in an attempt to walk down the hall, you are strangely quiet. It fades by the time you are aroused for another day, but you can’t seem to recall much of yesterday. These times are minuscule versions of what decades of life will leave behind. Years past are clouded and blurry; all recollections dim, apart from a few significant memoirs. I suppose this is an intention of the words I write– to keep these memories clear.




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