If you haven’t guessed so already, August isn’t really my name. It’s the month I was born in. But I’ve always felt like the name I was given wasn’t enough for me. It was boring and false and didn’t feel like mine. I like the name August. It feels right to me. It sounds like sunshine and flowers and smells like warm salty ocean breezes and air so hot you can feel its weight on your shoulders. The reason I wish this name was mine is because it’s everything I am not, but hope to be. I want to be a campfire in the sand that keeps you warm enough that you don’t get the chills. Or a willow tree flowing effortlessly in the warm air, dancing with the rhythm of the atmosphere. But I’m not. I want to be the joy on a child’s face brightened even more by the rays of a sunny day, or the sound of the murmur of the crowd from a day at the beach. But I won’t be.
This blog… well it’s me. It’s who I actually am, but it’s also me trying to become who I want to be. I long for a life that isn’t mine. I’m drowning alive. Trying to swim back to where I need to be to breath. But the air never comes.