Dear October

The End of Autumn

The End of Autumn

I haven’t seen as much of you as I would like, I fear. I have spent morning hours cowered under my covers, eyes glazed, glued to a computer screen. I have had so many mugs of herbal tea that I have ceased to notice how many teaspoons of honey I am using. It just keeps getting sweeter. I walked up a hill on one of your mornings, the sunlight was nowhere to be seen and the woolly socks inside my flimsy flats were drenched. Notice the juxtaposition of clothing. Juxtaposition of weather. I squelched my way through torrential rain, followed by a mournful drizzle.

When I got indoors there were several dead leaves on the carpet.

Oh, October. I noticed yesterday how bare you had become. How desolate your trees were, grasping desperately to the last fluttering wisps of papery yellow. How windy and cold, how dark and eerie. There was a time when I used to treasure the moment the clock hand turned back, but now I dread it. I dread pitch black nights, and bumping into cows.

How different you are from the last time I stepped foot outdoors! Your leaves were still green and thick and strong, your weather manageable. It still is, never fear. I am walking around in pyjama shorts and a vest; you cannot be that bad.

I just am at a loss. I used to watch your transformation on an almost hourly rate. I saw every leaf fall from your branches, I noticed how your sunsets grew vividly icy. I could pinpoint the exact moment that my breath became clouds in the air. I was outdoors, breathing, drinking, living your every breath.

Not this year.

This year I spent indoors. I missed the beauty of change, the exhilaration of trees and wind and rolling fields. I missed it all and became like one of those dull housewives obsessed about their children. Like one of those scholars so deep in their books they ceased to notice a natural world existed. I became a bore. I lost my sense of being.

I fear I am losing who I am, autumn.

I am no longer in cahorts with all the people of my imagination. I thought it was they who had deserted me when in reality it is me who is growing more distant. My mind is filling with an effervescence of silence. I have no inspiration, anymore. No enthusiasm. There are no ideas filling the nooks and crannies of my mind. There is no thought. I am being dulled down.

I am panicking. I am trying to grasp at straws. I am using a thesaurus.

I long for a summer, any summer. Preferably a Summer of the Rooks.

I long for the rooks to come sailing through the skyies, one after the other. I long for the minstrels to rise slowly from their silent hibernation. I long for the sweet smell of strawberries, for the golden morning sunshine to flood through my brain. I long for the Phenomenal Girl to throw open her windows to the coolness of the atmosphere, for Twig’s calm voice as opposed to Delilah’s raised, angry one, for George to go back to his sister, and help her grow again. I long for the leaves to unfurl, for the blossoms to float, for the laughter to begin. I long for sunlight through blades of grass, for the crisp, clear cut distinction between yellow and blue and green and red.

For my wit, for my health, for my happiness.

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