It’s fall.
The leaves are turning and the gutters and roads are strewn with autumn’s detritus.
I used to love autumn. This year, for some reason, I’m finding it more elegiac than usual. It signals the end of summer, I suppose, and I don’t feel I’m ready for it. It’s strange: normally it’s the other way around -- I can’t wait for summer (that florid, show-off of a season) to be over -- halfway through and I'll already be pining for the cool, melancholy days of fall.
But this summer I loved the humidity. And the storms and the lurid green lushness of everything, filling my eyes and my mind like an intoxicating, carcinogenic hallucinogen. It seemed to be over in a flash, though, a nanosecond. Already the trees are losing their leaves. Can it be possible? Here they are, slowly revealing their meagre, winter-skeleton-selves. And it saddens me. To be staring down the barrel of another winter. So soon.
The leaves are turning and the gutters and roads are strewn with autumn’s detritus.
I used to love autumn. This year, for some reason, I’m finding it more elegiac than usual. It signals the end of summer, I suppose, and I don’t feel I’m ready for it. It’s strange: normally it’s the other way around -- I can’t wait for summer (that florid, show-off of a season) to be over -- halfway through and I'll already be pining for the cool, melancholy days of fall.
But this summer I loved the humidity. And the storms and the lurid green lushness of everything, filling my eyes and my mind like an intoxicating, carcinogenic hallucinogen. It seemed to be over in a flash, though, a nanosecond. Already the trees are losing their leaves. Can it be possible? Here they are, slowly revealing their meagre, winter-skeleton-selves. And it saddens me. To be staring down the barrel of another winter. So soon.
