Sometimes I think we are all matchsticks, lying oh so still in these little cardboard boxes society has packaged us - under brands and signils and letters wholly unrelated to our very nature but somehow all too essential about our quality and how we burn. It doesn't matter to us, but it matters to the world.
We lie still, stiff, backs and breasts all pressing up against one another, lying in wait for a spark or a flint to let us finally flare up in beautiful flame. Sometimes we get wet by accidental water and the flame just wouldn't start, but that's okay, because dry us up and we are good to go again.
And we burn so bright. There's a spark, a hiss of air as we consume oxygen in our yellow crown of glory, giving out warmth and light and heat to light up a dark night, a child's lantern, maybe a birthday cake. The flame crown is passed on to a greater something: a candle, a bonfire to keep campers warm at night, burning steadily.
But the burn is momentary. Seconds later we will be blown out and the charcoal wreck of our bodies will lie in arthritic shrivelled kinks. We are shamed black ashes, discarded with the tissue and the garbage.
But oh, how brightly we long to burn.
I'm an oddity, probably, for loving autumn.
Autumn is an irrepressibly romantic season of contrasts: the ever so clear and blue skies after days of diaphanous grey, misty rain; the plump, lingering berries on ash-dry trees; the almost violent red surging in a burst of colour between the rain-slick brown leaves, dark tarmac and evergreen bushes.
In the wake of 10 p.m. sunsets in those frenetic days of summer, autumn seems like a slumber-warm dream: cinnamon-scented and interspersed with the nostalgia of just-yesterday, summer was here.
Autumn is an irrepressibly romantic season of contrasts: the ever so clear and blue skies after days of diaphanous grey, misty rain; the plump, lingering berries on ash-dry trees; the almost violent red surging in a burst of colour between the rain-slick brown leaves, dark tarmac and evergreen bushes.
In the wake of 10 p.m. sunsets in those frenetic days of summer, autumn seems like a slumber-warm dream: cinnamon-scented and interspersed with the nostalgia of just-yesterday, summer was here.
In a far away land (Denmark, to be precise), there dwelt a somewhat unkempt twenty-year-old girl possibly tipsy on bad Syrah and lost in life.
Helter-skelter ran stray thoughts: what am i doing in my life what am i who am i why am i doing this course when i dislike it what do i want
There are no good beginnings, really: no clear node in the sequence of events one can mark out as a Turning Point and say, Aha! So this is where I can go, and this is how it will turn out, so on and so forth. Life is regretfully not so neat - it will neither unfold as cleanly and logically as a carefully-planned storyline nor be half as poetic. Instead, one jerks on, half-confused while consulting one's painstakingly-mapped out course. In the end, all are as lost (but some, by incredible force of will, the comets aligning or sheer dumb luck, just appear to be less lost or good at pretending they intended to get lost anyway).
We all have to start somewhere, though. This place is as good as any.
(And here is everything and nothing at once. But get this: once upon a time there was a girl who thought she knew what she wanted but didn't, really. So this is her, trying to figure out who she is and what she wants, while growing up all along the way.)
(Hang in there. It's a tough ride, this one.)
Helter-skelter ran stray thoughts: what am i doing in my life what am i who am i why am i doing this course when i dislike it what do i want
There are no good beginnings, really: no clear node in the sequence of events one can mark out as a Turning Point and say, Aha! So this is where I can go, and this is how it will turn out, so on and so forth. Life is regretfully not so neat - it will neither unfold as cleanly and logically as a carefully-planned storyline nor be half as poetic. Instead, one jerks on, half-confused while consulting one's painstakingly-mapped out course. In the end, all are as lost (but some, by incredible force of will, the comets aligning or sheer dumb luck, just appear to be less lost or good at pretending they intended to get lost anyway).
We all have to start somewhere, though. This place is as good as any.
(And here is everything and nothing at once. But get this: once upon a time there was a girl who thought she knew what she wanted but didn't, really. So this is her, trying to figure out who she is and what she wants, while growing up all along the way.)
(Hang in there. It's a tough ride, this one.)
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