If not for the sign of the heat, would I know where I stand?
I say I absolutely adore autumn, the cold, the death of the old to make way for the new, but now I’m not so sure. I’m not a fan of the heat, but the permeation of it seems to burn away the very essence of this drudgery that I now feel so vividly.
But now summer is deep in its death throes, and autumn has once again been creeping in at the edges of my life, the nights cool and crisp, a sombre north wind flowing through the portico of my abode, keeping the windchimes awake in their slow, sleepy harmonic song.
The melody is that of the toneless whistle through the pine needles of the tall tree to the north of my apartment, rising and falling as the wind whispers to it in some forgotten language of the zephyrs.
And I merely stand there, drinking it all in, watching as the moments continue their dreadfully slow plod into a future that I am not patient enough to endure without some form of distraction.
When my resolve falters, when I can no longer manage to slough off the time and distance, I sit up at IHOP and spew forth my words into the bowels of cyberspace, for few, if anyone, to ever stumble upon. That’s quite alright with me, however, as these words are for my benefit, to provide a funnel to drip out the dark chuckberry ichor of the feelings that torment me so.
I think I know where I stand, and I’m not sure I wish to be standing here any longer. Once again, that deep-down desire is back… the desire to no longer stand, still and cautious, letting the world happen around me, but, like the wind, to run and hide into her waiting, open arms…
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