Summer is Gone

I want this summer back.

I wanted it too much. The day was hot and waves of heavy beats from giant speakers floated over my head; I could feel them in my hair and in my feet, and I remember ice in a drink hitting my teeth as I gulped it down, but I don't remember what the drink was. I remember looking around, seeing feet in sandals, legs in shorts, so many people. Eyes obscured behind sunglasses. I remember the way the air moved close around me. I remember the swirl of it all, or perhaps it was more of a shake, slowed down.

And then I remember nothing.

Everything feels close up and bright, but too close up, so close it's blurry. Liquid sounds almost reach me, but it's like I'm underwater, so I'm there, but I can't breathe, and I'm out of reach, though I'm reaching out, and around me it is warm but there is only air, nothing solid. I move my arms around, although I'm not sure they are moving, and I come into contact with nothing. I imagine myself on a precipice, high up somewhere, floating, surrounded by nothing but atmosphere in all directions. I want objects, tangible, something I can hurt myself by bumping into.

I imagine a chair, in a room, with walls, a floor and a roof.

I imagine myself in the chair.

I hear my name, almost a whisper, like a dream-whisper. I am in a parallel universe. Someone is calling out for me from the other side. I change direction.

My eyes will barely open and my head feels twice the size. I see shapes coming into focus. I hear beeps, and a thud, and I hear a voice, and I can hear the footsteps of feet, feet in shoes, and I am in a room, a room with light. I am in the hospital, connected to machines by lengths and tangles of wires.

And summer is gone, but I am not.