“My tears are like the quiet drift of petals from some magic rose; and all my grief flows from the rift of unremembered skies and snows. I think that if I touched the earth, it would crumble; it is so sad and beautiful, so tremulously like a dream.”—Dylan Thomas (via bookmania)
“Autumn teaches us that fruition is also death; that ripeness is a form of decay. The willows, having stood for so long near water, begin to rust. Leaves are verbs that conjugate the seasons.”—Gretel Ehrlich, The Solace of Open Spaces (via whiskey river)
“1492. As children we were taught to memorize this year with pride and joy as the year people began living full and imaginative lives on the continent of North America. Actually, people had been living full and imaginative lives on the continent of North America for hundreds of years before that. 1492 was simply the year sea pirates began to rob, cheat, and kill them.”—Kurt Vonnegut (via bloodcurdlingsameness)
This city had become so dull. There was nothing left for me here, and I was thinking of leaving. Well to be perfectly honest, I was already at the train station, about to buy a ticket out of here, anywhere. I turned around to take one last look at this dreadful place, and then I saw her.
She was just standing there, staring at me, with this sly sort of grin on her face. It was as if she knew something I didn’t, and I was intrigued. I wanted to know her secret.
I forgot about the train ticket immediately. I walked out of the queue and followed her, this mysterious girl with her knowing grin. She stayed just out of reach, her blonde hair straying out behind her. Suddenly she turned a corner, and even though I was only a few paces behind her, she was gone. I looked everywhere, turned on the spot so many times I became dizzy, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Suddenly laughter was bubbling out of me. How crazed I must have looked, how desperate for something new. I so badly wanted a reason to keep going, and my subconscious decided to give me this girl. How completely juvenile.
I turned around then and began to head back to the ticket stand, shaking my head. But then I saw it. There was something written on the wall beside me, something that I was certain hadn’t been there before.
October has returned once again, this month of falling leaves and pumpkin everything. The weather has begun to change, and the slight drop in temperature brings with it that inevitable sense of longing. There’s just something innately lonely about watching your breath leave you, as if even that which sustains you has grown tired of residing within you.
I’ve moved my sweaters to the front of my closet, at any rate. They’ve waited patiently all year for this month, as if to say, we, at least, are still here. So while my fleeing breath becomes intertwined in the steam rising from my tea, I find solace in too-large woolen sleeves pulled over my fingertips, my knees curled up to my chest.
The wind blows slightly against the exposed part of my neck, sending a shiver up my spine. It would make sense to go inside, to curl up in a mass of blankets, but I like it out here. The crisp air reminds me that I am alive, in this moment. I am awake, and it would be foolish to close my eyes against the fire of the Autumn leaves as they float around me, whispering fervently to go, do, be.
October is stirring inside of me, tugging at my heart in a way that only October can. This is a month of hot tea and many layers and the murmur of thoughts unspoken. It is a month of longing, but also of hope. And I smile as another cloud of my breath rises with the wind, leaving me for adventures unknown.
“I hate this feeling. Like I’m here, but I’m not. Like someone cares. But they don’t. Like I belong somewhere else, anywhere but here, and escape lies just past that snowy window, cool and crisp as the February air.”— Ellen Hopkins (via misswallflower)