The more time that passes by, the more I suffer this strange depletion. Things have changed, things are changing. The trajectory my life is following has become more streamlined and, while this sounds nice, I have grown accustomed to the various chaotic bursts that have been filling the now empty pockets of my weekly living. It’s a strange kind of hurt, a distasteful kind of relief. It creates a paranoia that after this cloud of tranquility passes, there is an icebreaker trailing behind it, one whose course was to crash into you—into me.
Do not mistake me: I have come to enjoy the extra time. Instead of tattooing myself red, staining the carpet a dusty blue, and repainting my room in deep grays, I have found that there is another side to the door. Time has come to show that all things are seasonal—all incidences, at least. Between my new freedom and the living fantasies it brings, I manage to wedge hopelessness into the wall’s crack. It is irony, but it is a truth.
Living as I do is nothing more than a constant desire to leave—even when you already have. It is this repetitive urgency to escape a situation that does not exist. I find a small loose floorboard and fit myself through the space, but I forget to reseal it every time. And the sink was left on. Having evolved into the nomad I am, I suckle on any piece of satisfaction I find: the smile on someone else’s face, the delight in someone else’s eyes, the fullness of someone else’s laughter. Because I believe I cannot find these things in my own. Now, there exists this awareness of everything around me. Not just other people, but the aura emitted from all things. The emotion I manage to hold onto I attain vampirically through the journeys I find myself wrapped up in and the people who decide to step into my life. But much like them, I don’t regret the action.
Autumn was such a trivial moment in time and quickly it has become the golden gates to the second half of me. I’ve known this time to be filled with my feed: energy, excitement, and bliss. And pumpkins. Suddenly, I fear I may starve. As the doors grow closer, the more imperative autonomy becomes. I can no longer be dependent on the likes of everyone else; they grow as I do and will come and go. Relying on what I knew would remain as a child will not do as I evolve in nature. It is in me to put lackluster efforts at “happiness” behind me, but the will to do so is scattered amongst the doubt. The more I come to terms with these things, the brighter the sun seems to shine through. But I know that so long as I do not strive for the progression I seek, the more bitter Autumn will become—the more time will sting on my wrist.