(no subject)
She loves the changing seasons, the smell of Fall and Spring.
She wishes she loved Spring more; Spring is an era of promise, of things waking and coming alive. It is new, and beautiful, and something concrete she can point to when the drudgery of a compromised life seems a little too much to bear. Spring is a world in motion, unrepentantly obstinate and, ultimately, redeemable.
She used to think she was a little like Spring.
But the reality is that nothing moves her quite as much as Fall. Keep her in the dark, tell her it's June, and she'd still know the truth; she could feel it in her bones. She knows the desperate edge of inevitability that saturates the air, the kaleidoscoping colors, the very light -- a sun setting before it's fully risen, a world whispering, lulling itself to sleep. It's cold, and it's haunting, and it's so goddamned glorious, it makes her heart ache. Because, for a time, she feels like she's part of something again, part of something that comes easy.
There are some days when she does absolutely nothing at all, and she still thinks she's not done it right. It confuses her and it makes her pensive, and as transcendentally apropos as that would be this time of year, she doesn't wear it well. There are things she thinks that, after thirty pretty good years, she should be able to understand.
Mostly, she thinks she should be able to understand herself.
Melancholy hits her like vertigo lately. Laughter, singing, then sudden, inexplicable sadness. Her rooms are littered with relics: her father's wedding band, pictures and scrapbooks, awards, movies and music from her youth; they all radiate a life she remembers, but too vaguely. But that's not even the point. There are new lives to spend; mornings are afternoons that bleed into nights, and she's lived a year, a turning of the seasons, in every day.
She doesn't get it, what's changed after all this time. She hates that she hates that, that she can't let it go as easily as she's let go of more important things, like family and friends and the prospect of love. So, she just vibrates in the Fall, barely held together by her skin, and she waits for all the sleeping and the cover of snow. She knows she won't feel at home again for awhile.
And she thinks she would hate the world so much if it weren't just so beautiful.
She wishes she loved Spring more; Spring is an era of promise, of things waking and coming alive. It is new, and beautiful, and something concrete she can point to when the drudgery of a compromised life seems a little too much to bear. Spring is a world in motion, unrepentantly obstinate and, ultimately, redeemable.
She used to think she was a little like Spring.
But the reality is that nothing moves her quite as much as Fall. Keep her in the dark, tell her it's June, and she'd still know the truth; she could feel it in her bones. She knows the desperate edge of inevitability that saturates the air, the kaleidoscoping colors, the very light -- a sun setting before it's fully risen, a world whispering, lulling itself to sleep. It's cold, and it's haunting, and it's so goddamned glorious, it makes her heart ache. Because, for a time, she feels like she's part of something again, part of something that comes easy.
There are some days when she does absolutely nothing at all, and she still thinks she's not done it right. It confuses her and it makes her pensive, and as transcendentally apropos as that would be this time of year, she doesn't wear it well. There are things she thinks that, after thirty pretty good years, she should be able to understand.
Mostly, she thinks she should be able to understand herself.
Melancholy hits her like vertigo lately. Laughter, singing, then sudden, inexplicable sadness. Her rooms are littered with relics: her father's wedding band, pictures and scrapbooks, awards, movies and music from her youth; they all radiate a life she remembers, but too vaguely. But that's not even the point. There are new lives to spend; mornings are afternoons that bleed into nights, and she's lived a year, a turning of the seasons, in every day.
She doesn't get it, what's changed after all this time. She hates that she hates that, that she can't let it go as easily as she's let go of more important things, like family and friends and the prospect of love. So, she just vibrates in the Fall, barely held together by her skin, and she waits for all the sleeping and the cover of snow. She knows she won't feel at home again for awhile.
And she thinks she would hate the world so much if it weren't just so beautiful.