September 27th, 2019
My brain is probably backwards, but I’ve always felt like fall is a beginning.
I think most people assign spring as the season of something new. But for me, the heat death of summer has always signified endings. The end of friendships. The end of romances. The end of freedom.
Because where we live, winter is when you need to be sharp. You don’t simply stumble through a tough winter; you prepare for one, you learn from one, you grow through one.
And winter is so much more exciting than summer. There’s the lights and the sounds and the feeling that we collectively get that we should be better people, that we should care more; and if we’re not and if we don’t, there’s a new year right around the corner when we can try again, with fresh hearts and fresher snow.
I think fall feels new because of how it breathes. The air feels like it’s being cold born through your lungs for the first time, like nobody else had warmed up the oxygen before you got a sip. It’s not the heavy, recycled breaths of other seasons; it’s newly conditioned air from the stars being fed into the dark sky that visits earlier every day.
Fall make me feel poetic because it lacks pretention. It’s bold and it’s beautiful and it doesn’t care what you call it because it knows it’s art.
My brain is definitely backwards if you consider fall objectively. It is not a beginning.
But fall shakes the heart instead and makes you believe that something is coming. Something big and bright and electrifying.