It was September, the season of dead leaves and lattes. It was September, the month my mom died and my birthday. It was September, the September.
July and August always come and go with ease, I’d just moved out of my family’s house and just started meeting some new people. It was the September that I learned how credit worked. I spent my nights missing someone who could have never been closer to me emotionally. I spent my days working three jobs and missing him more among the sun-beams anyway.
It was the September that I felt the strings in my heart snap. I was making that 60 mile drive home to see my family, the tension of the strings was overwhelming. But I didn’t know why, I never know why. It was the September that I learned not to look at beautiful things for too long because they will inevitably turn vile before your eyes.
It was the September that I allowed myself to mourn, letting the truth out felt like the flowers that had been planted in my lungs long ago finally had a chance to grow, and they grew out of my mouth. But, the flowers would wilt before anyone got a chance to see them. It was the September that I saw my father descend down his steep slope, the September of hard-feelings.
It was the September that I decided to “give up”, I guess. Suddenly, I couldn’t get a grip; I had fallen through the cracks of the ground I once conquered, every attempt to claw myself out of that dark place resulted in my vulnerable defeat. It was the September that I mutated into an apathetic, unfavorable version of myself.
ASIDE: To write about something recent, and to share it (more importantly) terrifies me. Not because I am reluctant to be honest in fear of judgement, I just want to reject pity. Scratch that, I need to reject pity. These short stories are not as dramatic as metaphors may disguise them as. Not disregarding their importance, but they’re not “worth” dwelling on. So if I share this, and if you read it, (which I guess you would have to be doing that right now) I beg you not to apologize or view this as some sort of cry for help. Thank you, and sorry for what seems like my resentment towards sympathies.
It was the September of sleeping on the couch, which led to the October of continuing to avoid my bed. It wasn’t until November that I picked myself up out of the debris and decided to move. Move: not necessarily on or away, but just to never cease. I made a vow to never allow my sadness to over stay its welcome, to merely let the sadness visit as a reminder, but never allow it to stay long enough to become malevolent. It was the November that I felt like a writer, after the years of documenting every thought that found its way between my ears, this was the first time that I had the necessary ups and downs that the craft required of me.
It was the November that I realized the river banks within my eyes had dried, that my bed was comfortable again. It was the November that I made changes to change the changes I had made. It became the winter of clarity and discernment.