Its that time of year again when I drown myself in Jane Austen’s perennial words, “You pierce my soul, I am half-agony, half-hope,”or “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.” I immerse myself in writing, my fingers seem to grow more agitated and words pour from them ceaselessly. I reflect on what I’ve accomplished, and each year around this time I am sure it has not been enough. It’s that time of year again when pastries call to me, and my waistline hums in happiness, where books and shows become my lovers and my friends. When I long for spiritual connection, and I lay awake at night hoping to find it in the obsidian portions of the evening. Where amber, ocher, carmine, obsidian and gold weave their way across my eyes; the colours of this time.
That time of year when days seem to still, the leaves and the wind the most pronounced movement. When dreams come and go, leaving no traces behind. When laughter is replaced by quiet joys, and quiet time. Of peace and hope and warm memories. Long walks under scenic falling leaves. Every year it comes, and I fall each time. Every year it drapes me in a kind of hopeful, tragic blanket that I can’t seem to break out of… this autumn heart of mine is yours before you even arrive.
Me, Myself and Thine 