I categorize seasons and years. I used to find what I now recognize as an insipid quality in myself charming, and if nothing else, it has proved categorically useful---in the same kind of way that jerking off is also categorically useful.
Autumn has always been a significant time for me. I traditionally have fallen in love during autumns. I make big life choices during these months. The crushing apathy of winter hasn't set in, but I'm not dreamy and oblivious like I am during the summer. It's a time for growth and transition.
And so, ladies and gentlemen, for your edification and my own, I give you the last five year's worth: The autumn of cold geometry and the end of my childhood, the autumn of blind migraines, the autumn where all the colors seemed to get richer and more saturated, the autumn of bridges. Now this current autumn, most poetically put by yours truly, a real honest-to-golly trained poet: "the autumn where I fucked up everything forever and every single little thing I ever touched or loved or wanted to keep turned to pathetic ashes in my hands."
No comments:
Post a Comment