She tripped on a hole / That I'd dug in the soil / To be part of a human garden

I'm still waiting for the summer to begin. And I'm aware of the fact that it's close to the end of July, but still, nothing seems real to me. I think I'm still stuck in May; still stuck in a month that was (mostly) good to me. It doesn't help much to work in a hole with no fucking windows. And I keep reading the most terrifying, depressing literature, which, I'm sure, doesn't help either. I'm not sad, I'm trying to keep a positive light... I'm just so fucking confused. And not the good kind of lost that will teach me a valuable life lesson..... at least, it doesn't feel like it. I'm not learning anything. I'm just going through the motions. I'm not even inspired. After the month of tremendous hell, I barely have anything poetic to show for it. All I've done is started several poems and half-heartily scribbled the beginnings of a dozen prose pieces. Nothing is finished. Nothing is complete. But I suppose that makes sense.