Autumn and All Her Friends

Autumn is my favorite season. I anticipate its comfort between the hot and sticky summer and the unreasonably cold bite of winter. The skies are a bit hazy in the afternoon, as I idly distract myself with menial chores and schoolwork. A crisp, sweet scent welcomes me and brings me home, deliberately enticing me to drown myself in its richness, intoxicating me with its insatiable guile. Fall points to a new direction, as fresh opportunities bloom like bashful roses in the spring. The cool air cradles every fiber of my being. The crunchy leaves attain manifestations of wisdom with their withered, fragile skins and antique rouge colours. As exciting as this is, I realize something. This rite of passage is ephemeral, and even worse, it is cyclic.

Fall carries the cumbersome weight of the dreaded past that perpetually haunts me. Out of my many irksome habits, nostalgia is my worse vice. A mighty gust of wind imbues me with such a heartbreaking feeling, encouraging me to pursue in the opposite direction of my shallow dreams. Suddenly, I'm running so fast, I'm soaring in the air. I'm all alone, only comforted by the hollow voices that echo inside my degenerating mind. They tell me, "Let the dead bury the dead." How could I? My long-forgotten acquittals return to the state of unforgivable guilts that flood my conscience with irrelevant thoughts. I jitter with both anticipation for liberation and the calm of death. Happiness is long gone before I discern its subtle presence.

I like to believe that I suffer from the condition of equilibrium—balanced, yet undeniably moving and reacting to outer stimuli. With such feverish impatience, I tread through unpredictable water currents. Transformation of those around me is eminent. I remember my fifth grade days in elementary school when I sang Christmas carols with the rest of my class. Everything changed; everything remained the same. Even when I was placed into a new environment, the obstinate normalcy never changed.

Swinging on an old tire, I hear the pubescent boy serenade to the lovestruck girl, who ridiculously derives a sort of hidden charm from his cynical and egotistical façade. My old instructor, an experienced and reasonable person, sighs with both complacency and anxiety. Middle-aged witches with leopard-print purses leer at fine, young bucks like the pubescent boy. This fact humors me. I sit and watch the children play vividly, jumping through piles of withered leaves, bicycling down steep slopes, and whispering insubstantial secrets to one another. I realize the smiling faces are soon gone. They were never mine. So it goes. I breathe, and that breath, an eloquent representation of the very essence of life, reminds me of everything I have to gain and lose. I was always accountable, for myself and for others, and this haunting fact binds together my very neurotic and volatile existence.