This time, I’m talking to you, my fellow millennials.

Imagine this: The sweet serendipity of the sun’s golden rays brushes off your skin, triggering an all too familiar sensation in your mind−into your heart. Regardless of whether it is an unassuming stroll in the neighborhood or parasailing across the Pacific, summer−amidst the heat waves, sunburn peelings and all− remains to produce the same yearly magic. Almost as if a spell, a curse even, in which you are suddenly enchanted by the July warmth−in all of its magnificence and deceitful light. Despite reality knocking on your door, you enter a trance. You are comforted by the temporary reality of sleepless nights, extended Netflix showings, perpetual laughter, and the occasional white sand and palm trees. And in a heartbeat, where complications are non-existent and simplicity is in its abundance, you would much rather allow 3 a.m. star-gazing become your reality. And yes, for a while, your wish is granted.

At the peak of wanderlust, however, you are soon placed back on the ground. Reality, in its persistence, initially unwelcomed in your daze, now calls time by its side.

This time, it doesn’t knock, but barges in.

The first week of August: Indeed, the sun remains to preserve its luster, the waves are still yearning to be crashed, yet someone else is calling your name. Even louder. You continue your YouTube sessions in its normalcy, but now, you encounter a new obnoxious advertisement. It’s the revered Target bulls-eye dog, all innocent and irresistible, but then your eyes suddenly lead you to his paws, sitting atop pencils, binders, and backpacks, put in-context by the illuminated print: Back to School Buys. And, just like that, you are awaken from your slumber.

The sun has hidden behind the clouds; and you and I, quite frankly, cannot do the same.

We are now destined to turn on Spotify to verbally witness Walmart’s disturbing (although practical) 50-cent notebooks. Even 30-minutes of ad-free music can’t exempt us from impending doom.

Turning on the TV to watch "The Bachelor"? Perfect, how about some calculators?

In its unassuming manifestation, our spontaneous errand to the grocery store now transforms our carts, full of Hot Cheetos, into anything but edible.

Through our previous reverie, of course, we glorified anything “summer” related. Summer clothes, summer vacation, summer job (although its appeal is debatable), summer getaway, and the beloved summer assignments. Wait, what? Yes, they exist. Yes, okay, maybe they're not so beloved. But yes, we are bound to do them.

Much like a 35-year-old freelancer, we are stuck. In the middle of it all. Suddenly, even though the vibrant season is still upon us, we deviate from the sun and into the shade, enclosed in our rooms−reading and writing and repeatedly continuing the cycle−gradually invited to forget such a bliss ever existed, yet, on the other hand, the summer’s inexplicable caress is still trying to tempt us in all its might. We write on paper, but we wish to write on the sand. Such a crossroads, at the climax of summer’s reign, embodies the exact confusion of our middle-aged peers, where vigorous youth, spontaneity, and irrationality are shamelessly confiscated by the horrors of growing responsibilities, and in essence, the start of perpetual adulthood.

For both, time was once elongated, never-ending; but now, we enter a ruthless race. While the aspiring adult panics to create a promising future, our dazed youth sweats at the nearing deadline of high school’s general, honors, or AP assignments. For incoming seniors, the approaching horror of standardized testing, college essays, college visits, and internships can quite likely, eat us alive. We are determined to become committed, yet half of us cries to roam free−back to the comfort of luminous July.

However, like anything else in this world, confusion is fleeting. On August 3rd, we may be protesting, scratching our scalps at the unfair end of the most cherished moments in our lives, but ultimately, time and confrontation ignites newfound opportunities.

Here's to another chance to have the best day ever, another sensational summer−an enhancement in our tale, our lingering memories, that, in reality, never leave our side.

To you thirty-year-old (and older) readers who did not get the spotlight this time, don’t worry, your identity crisis too, shall pass.

Let the wrath of upcoming change become the sweetest victory, for in an ever-evolving world, time is ultimately obsolete, while our experiences reign everlasting−engraved in the souls of those who have read, witnessed, or listened to them. And in recognition of the first week of August, friends, let us rejoice the end, the middle, and the beginning in all.