Thursday, October 10, 2019
I feel melancholic in autumn.
I always have.
And I love it.
In college, a small, wooded area stretched beside the field between the sophomore and senior dorms. I'd escape into a copse of trees, sit against a trunk, and cry into the rain.
Autumn is a time of beginnings: new school years, my birthday, a reprieve from stifling summer heat.
It’s also a time of endings as the leaves wither and fall, I grow another year older, and the calendar year wanes.
I love the scent of rain, the threat of an impending storm, the invigorating tempest, the soothing pattern of a drizzle. But I hate the humid aftermath.
The muggy wake of a storm front feels like my head after crying--after the dam has burst and the excitement has past. I’m dehydrated and yet swollen. Puffy eyes, mucous breath.
So too the air seems after the rain passes, and I’m left wondering: what’s next to look forward to?