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Winter is coming. I can feel it. Snow is predicted for later this week. First snow.
How many years have to come between me and these memories before they fade completely? More importantly, do they matter? No, I suppose not. Only so much as they have helped make me who I am today, like a myriad of other experiences that are a part of me but I am simultaneously detached from. This is me wistfully moving through life, not sure what's on the horizon yet wrapping myself in wool coats and long scarves against the cold.
Every season is the same but different. The leaves fall as the temperature dips, and I think about how much I hate spring but love autumn, which makes no sense at all. Given how much I hate being cold, you'd think I'd hate the slow, steady slide into ice and skidding into traffic and shoveling snow for months on end. Not so. For some reason, I sleep better when it's cold. I like the jeweled colors and sharp contrasts in the trees. I revel in painting my face and pretending to be someone else if only for a night. Anyone but me. Where is that in spring? Who likes pastels and rabbits anyway? I think once spring hits, I get impatient after being cold for so long that I crave the instant gratification of summer warmth over the stupid back and forth warm then cold then warm then HOT weather that seems to happen around here every year. I'd take autumn over that any day, even if it's the same process in reverse and is sure to drive me into depression for a while.
Last year around this time, I could barely function. I was unemployed (though I had interviewed for the job I would eventually get), and I was still very hung up on a lot of things I couldn't do anything about. I find I think about the past less and less, and I'm okay with a lot more than I used to be, things that just are what they are. Reality and such. Actually, I don't think about a lot these days. Well, that's not true. It's more that I have a lot of thoughts I probably shouldn't mention in polite company, and I don't seem to have enough energy to express them in a satisfying way.
Still, the background noise reminds me of things that make me nervous and skeptical of happiness and how difficult it is to nail down, even if you secretly believe in it with all your heart. Maybe I just can't stand being happy for too long. Who knows how to make love stay? I don't really trust it anyway.
How many years have to come between me and these memories before they fade completely? More importantly, do they matter? No, I suppose not. Only so much as they have helped make me who I am today, like a myriad of other experiences that are a part of me but I am simultaneously detached from. This is me wistfully moving through life, not sure what's on the horizon yet wrapping myself in wool coats and long scarves against the cold.
Every season is the same but different. The leaves fall as the temperature dips, and I think about how much I hate spring but love autumn, which makes no sense at all. Given how much I hate being cold, you'd think I'd hate the slow, steady slide into ice and skidding into traffic and shoveling snow for months on end. Not so. For some reason, I sleep better when it's cold. I like the jeweled colors and sharp contrasts in the trees. I revel in painting my face and pretending to be someone else if only for a night. Anyone but me. Where is that in spring? Who likes pastels and rabbits anyway? I think once spring hits, I get impatient after being cold for so long that I crave the instant gratification of summer warmth over the stupid back and forth warm then cold then warm then HOT weather that seems to happen around here every year. I'd take autumn over that any day, even if it's the same process in reverse and is sure to drive me into depression for a while.
Last year around this time, I could barely function. I was unemployed (though I had interviewed for the job I would eventually get), and I was still very hung up on a lot of things I couldn't do anything about. I find I think about the past less and less, and I'm okay with a lot more than I used to be, things that just are what they are. Reality and such. Actually, I don't think about a lot these days. Well, that's not true. It's more that I have a lot of thoughts I probably shouldn't mention in polite company, and I don't seem to have enough energy to express them in a satisfying way.
Still, the background noise reminds me of things that make me nervous and skeptical of happiness and how difficult it is to nail down, even if you secretly believe in it with all your heart. Maybe I just can't stand being happy for too long. Who knows how to make love stay? I don't really trust it anyway.
