There was always something nostalgic about Autumn. Since I wait for the bus just about every morning, I’ve been given the opportunity to watch the gradual change of scenery around me. The leaves slowly swap their clothes. They are first a lavish green, then they change into vibrant oranges, reds, and yellows to express their individuality – much like I. The vast array of tones naturally attracts the curiosity of human eyes. So, I gaze in absolutely awe as the barking trees are left alone. The leaves have now been disconnected from their caregivers. Without parachutes, they sink through the soothing air unto the ground and dress Gaia with a colorful coat, totally disregarding the parents which have given them life. Or perhaps – the misunderstood leaves are martyrs which sacrifice their lives with hopes that the next generation will prosper. Just perhaps. They then harden their exterior to suppress all connections with external understanding, openly coinciding with the harshness and cruelty of physiology. We truly do not understand them. We even blindly press our shoe-covered feet against them and their friends to verify their reasoning.
It’s a multi, not universe, if seen this way. All which exists has its own existence. And in my existence, I enjoy the nature of misunderstanding — fore I am naturally misunderstood, just as the leaves. But Autumn — She explains Herself wordlessly in a cyclical fashion. And Autumn is not reluctant in expressing fashion. She blows the chilling breath of Yuki-onna as I sit on what remains of where leaves once remained. Because of this, She changes people. My friend, on the other hand, is not like I, but is gripped by my cold, right hand. The legacies of the trees which host the leaves are also beneath the tarred ink of my friend. This pen, it depicts the organized structure of spoken language in encrypted form. I sit and write about writing and sitting whilst Autumn massages my tense muscles. I hear the distant rumbles of wood seeking attention around me. Over barren time, they dance in the harmony of Autumn’s breath, longing for recognition. I realize that I’ve recognize them, but then my thoughts shift – just as the seasons. In turn, I only wait for Autumn to come just so that I may watch her leave. I put my friend down, but in order to protect myself from Her full potential, I cover myself with Gaia, steadily walk to the end of a concrete driveway, and wait for a bus.