Cool blizzard breezes blow inside the house now. To sit right in front of the A/C unit during a hot, sweltering summers day is both divine and painful. To put your head near it until your beads of sweat dry up and fall off. Until your heartbeat calms. Nonna had an A/C unit right in the corner of her house, pointed toward the driveway that she didn’t use, right off the dining room table. When it would get too hot, I remember planting myself in front of it. It was a relatively new piece of equipment. All white. Used sparingly. Effective. It would make a deep, whirring, breezy noise. One that is vague to me now and cannot completely recall. It would trill and vibrate at times. Sound angry, but I knew it wasn’t. Box of crayons, melted from the summer kitchen heat. They lived on top of the refrigerator with coloring books. I am sorry for every time I disobeyed and defied. The A/C air smelled clean, good, pure. Icelandic idyllic. I would sit near the A/C unit until my skin became gooseflesh, until I shivered. I’m not sure if I would have made it this far in life without the invention of A/C in general. Sometimes summer gets too hot and plays with your mind. I do not miss sweltering in New York City subways upwards of 95, probably 100 degrees, waiting for a train, praying for a breeze to blow. Feeling the sweat cling to every article of clothing I had on. This year has been very different. I am iron-willed lately, yet dipping into arenas of apathy. As if I’m the apathetic champion. No one could care less than me some days. Panini pressed in marble. Day in and day out, take out, fantasy. There are dragons in my soup, roaring fire and flames. I hear the cacophony of guitars nearing the perimeter. There are some words I choose not to use anymore. I am ricocheting rocks somedays. Pelting little stones at windows, waxing romantic without saying anything. Psychic energy powers to bring life to flowers blooming and other Nature-esque miracles. Resolving to try again tomorrow, feeling defeated and pointless. The air conditioning sedates me and enrages me when it’s not there. This is all meaningless, pointless. My muscles don’t understand anymore.

Author: Roe

she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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