Sometimes, I just want to write. Just for the love of it. No reason, no subject. Just write. Muse on how the summer has said it's last goodbye, as autumn greets us with rain and sour wind, with that fresh smell the grass gets after the rain and the colours of the leaves, from bright red to fiery orange. The birds outside are singing their last goodbyes, and a promise of return next spring, before they leave the scene for their winter cousins to take their turn at chirping.
Autumn. It's been a lot of thoughts about autumn, a whole lot of people musing on it's good and it's bad. Even Jane Austen did, a silent day in Persuasion. And I, as the rest of the world it would seem, am also taken in by the poetic calm of autumn. Urged by the promise of approaching winter to enjoy my last few days of comparatively nice weather, coaxed by the howling wind outside into being lazy, and drinking way too much tea.
As I look at autumn, I see rings under eyes grow darker, voices less cheery. In true Stark spirit, Winter Is Coming. Darkness, cold, loneliness, exams. All of this, winter promises. Persuading us to forget about the joy of Christmas, the fact that we're not alone, that there are an endless amount of candles that can be lit for every dark hour outside. And, making us forget it's not here yet. I want to grab them by the shoulders, those people, scream to them that there's no point being sad about it now. That it won't come later or sooner because you're whining about it already. I'd ask them to enjoy the moment, if I thought it would change anything.
Ah, let them have their misery if they so insist. I'll take no part in it. Not before winter has it's final grasp around me at the very least. No, I will spend my time feeling the poetic tug of autumn inspire me, romanticizing everything. As I walk down a street looking up at the few stars I can see beneath the constant city fog, talking about my dreams and hopes, laughing, listening to him as he talks about his dreams and hopes. Enjoying silence that for me isn't awkward, that is comfortable, filled by our presence, my thoughts, only disturbed by my worry that he isn't seeing the silence the same way. As we laugh about our silly mistakes, autumn with it's poetry tricks me, tells me it is love I feel.
And as it is autumn, peaceful as we sit by the ocean, talking and laughing, who am I to say it is not? So I will believe that it is, until winter comes and rips my dreams apart. But that is not now, and now it is peace, happiness, and possibly newborn love.
Nemo
Autumn. It's been a lot of thoughts about autumn, a whole lot of people musing on it's good and it's bad. Even Jane Austen did, a silent day in Persuasion. And I, as the rest of the world it would seem, am also taken in by the poetic calm of autumn. Urged by the promise of approaching winter to enjoy my last few days of comparatively nice weather, coaxed by the howling wind outside into being lazy, and drinking way too much tea.
As I look at autumn, I see rings under eyes grow darker, voices less cheery. In true Stark spirit, Winter Is Coming. Darkness, cold, loneliness, exams. All of this, winter promises. Persuading us to forget about the joy of Christmas, the fact that we're not alone, that there are an endless amount of candles that can be lit for every dark hour outside. And, making us forget it's not here yet. I want to grab them by the shoulders, those people, scream to them that there's no point being sad about it now. That it won't come later or sooner because you're whining about it already. I'd ask them to enjoy the moment, if I thought it would change anything.
Ah, let them have their misery if they so insist. I'll take no part in it. Not before winter has it's final grasp around me at the very least. No, I will spend my time feeling the poetic tug of autumn inspire me, romanticizing everything. As I walk down a street looking up at the few stars I can see beneath the constant city fog, talking about my dreams and hopes, laughing, listening to him as he talks about his dreams and hopes. Enjoying silence that for me isn't awkward, that is comfortable, filled by our presence, my thoughts, only disturbed by my worry that he isn't seeing the silence the same way. As we laugh about our silly mistakes, autumn with it's poetry tricks me, tells me it is love I feel.
And as it is autumn, peaceful as we sit by the ocean, talking and laughing, who am I to say it is not? So I will believe that it is, until winter comes and rips my dreams apart. But that is not now, and now it is peace, happiness, and possibly newborn love.
Nemo