August looms, like a nightmare yet undreamt. 

How do I tell you of the screaming here within?  What language can I employ, what words, to tell you how I feel?  To tell myself?  You might be one who strides with confidence from realm to realm, looking pleased, moving with grace, weilding several languages as if they were just tools.  But I am less than that; I need more.  Maybe you are stronger, or braver, or just more arrogant than me.  It doesn't matter which of those you are, it doesn't matter what you are at all.  You are not here with me, and that's where I always get stuck. 

I guess it is a left brain, right brain thing.  A dilemma between realities; the physical and the metaphysical.  Both are true.  Both have elements which contradict the other.  And the life we live is the place these two worlds meet in search of resolution. 

In this life, we reunify these things to some degree.  Or we don't. 

It is almost August, a signal that summer is half over.  And what of all my June optimism?--my languid expectation of more to come, more warm and charming days, with no winter doom in sight? 

In August you will be here, a boy from my past, a ripple in this pool begun decades ago, and yet unsettled.  Hmm.  That's sad.  That here there is so little flow, and you, a racing river.  Once we mingled, and that seems, now, odd.  I thought at the time I was greatly moved, though I have no memory but of stillness.  And I thought we joined, briefly at least, but I can't recall you ever still.