I feel my thoughts rumble into a manual jog, the oil in my system unfreezes and becomes viscous, the little pebbles of genius strut in and start to inhabit the bouncy-castle of my brain.
That is what September is like, for me.
It is full of genius, of crisp thought, of discovery. September is like a beacon for Boston’s literary circles, for the confusion of all trite beginnings and the distinct instances that diversify the aftermath of those beginnings and personalize them into living things memories.
September is cobbled streets, apple cobbler, and cobbling your schedule into a routine.
September wakes early and sleeps the same.
September doesn’t let you nap, but you don’t mind, because there is so much to think about that you can’t fall asleep anyway.
September is all anniversary and no dessert.
September is the beginning of that sumptuous, delicious hibernation in which you drink tea, and feel out of place with company.
September makes wool socks out of book piles and fires out of hunger.
I was born in the spring time when everything awakens. I love that season and I am starting to love it more, now that I am reminded of how hard waking is without the sun; but autumn holds me soul close with one arm, sets me down, covers me in blankets and tells me stories until I fall asleep.
This isn’t much in the way of a blog post, as much as it is a rumination on a feeling I love, till death do us part.