‘Weird autumn‘, she said through a mouth of smoke. I clung to the railing holding a sweating water bottle to my head. ‘Yeah, weird autumn‘, I said back, sucking on the fag end till I felt the filter fold.
We stared at the farce of trees dotting the outside of the park, the brown streaked like hands of leaves billowing as if pulled by an ocean current. Invisible lines of force exerting itself on nature, leaving the sidewalk cluttered with the remains of photosynthesis, life and death… She left me with a thought before she left for good. You only see the seasons change 80 times… If you’re lucky that is.
That’s eighty autumns, that’s eighty times to dress up as your favorite monster. eighty excuses to try that new coffee that’s a little too pricey, but hey it’s colder now so treat yourself… Eighty times to see the world spin by those invisible lines of force. Time.
It started like most autumns do, with the malaise of winter eating away at the niceties of summer. The hot washed days of late sunlight that hang in the air, the fat burning, spoiled ice cream that melts with life onto and off the pavement. Where sex feels great because that fever is so bad and skin melts in your fingers. I want to say it was a good one, I want to say I did something interesting or I surprised myself. Or that I made a connection for life, that I found something in someone that made me go oh… Another one of me is out there, just over there, probably too wrapped up in their interior life to imagine me also wrapped up in mine.
I have a spot, not far from campus, there isn’t a bench but a short wall I’ll sit on. Sometimes hipsters or teens will climb the statue in front. Play pop songs from tinny phone speakers or dare each other to jump off the top. Though the sideshow of kids isn’t why it’s my spot. It’s the apartment buildings the break up the skyline, the little grey boxes that swallow patches of blue behind them. Not filled with metal, machinery and office equipment. But people, their lives, their belongings, and inside one of those apartments, actually all of those apartments is a person. A person that’s just as much of a person as you, or me… One with a history and a present, and a future. You might never know it, likely you won’t. It will just happen around you, more little invisible lines.
They say psychopaths aren’t convinced other people have interior lives. Voices and consciousness, understanding, thought. They believe they are uniquely intelligent in that regard. Moments like this remind me of the overwhelming scale of it, how mind numbingly painful it is to remember every person is in fact a person just as complicated and fucked up as you. I can understand switching off from that, it’s horrible at times. Complicated, messy. I’ve known people who ignore these facts, sometimes if you just don’t want to think you’ll numb yourself with distractions. Sometimes it’s people, friends, family, others alcohol, drugs, cigarettes. Things that help eat away at those feelings, those thoughts that are so all consuming they feel more like bear traps grasping at your ankles. Pulling you down and under into the darkness until there’s… I don’t even know what there is down there, it’s inarticulable. It’s just everything and nothing, solipsism and empathy and imagination and insecurities.
I think I got distracted here. Autumn I love, but I don’t like what it’s done to my life. To realise that one of the few people who might be, in some regard, even mildly responsible for your wellbeing, is in fact, a really rather fragile individual is pretty disturbing. I don’t like looking after the sick, it makes me sick too. It makes things hard and it ties you down, and I’m afraid of being tied up. I like the freedom to flake, the freedom to bounce, because if you don’t care about showing up, no one cares if you don’t. Yeah it’s a two way streak and it builds resentment, but hey, if it stops me from throwing up in the sink every other night with panic… I’m not gonna stop it.
Bad Autumn, weird Autumn, I am too a fucked up series of seasons that change. I’m spring, summer, autumn and winter, though my patterns of change are inconsistent. They’re striking and sudden and rarely make rhythm. What are you feeling today, the cold bite of winter, where you’re a little short angry and depressed. Or maybe spring today, I’m hot and bothered, and anxious and eager. Just a ball of unfocused yellow messy energy. I’m bipolar.
I hate it mostly, I never have one stage, I never have one calm moment. Everything is always the best or the worst. There’s no middle ground. When I fall in love it’s everything, the world the movement the universe it’s all love. When I fall out of love it’s nothing, it’s nada and it’s like it was never even there. It’s that extreme with everything, and I don’t have a balance. I try, I swallow pills, and attempt to meditate. I sit crossed legged on the floor of my room. Though I mostly end up drinking from a hip flask, listening to bad punk rock and staring at the ceiling.
fuck dude. fuck.