Fall has never felt so colorless, so watered down, and so defective of joy all at once. I wake up each morning expecting news. I wake up each morning convinced I am working towards a greater good, a better life, a more fun life. Something I can cherish.
Pass the same park on my way to school each morning, the one where my brother and I found a bent spoon once, the one I always thought would make a good makeout spot, though I never got to test that theory, the one where I saw kids who a year or two ago would've been around my age scribbling on the abandoned shacks with paint markers. I'm not a pessimist. But I do believe in the concept of useless protest. Who the hell is scribbling gay rights on traffic cones and calling themselves an actvist?
Sometimes I keep crying and I can't stop, it comes up in me over and over again, this permeating sense of otherness, this wild sense of fog in my lungs and eyes. I read pages three or four times over, forget what I said or where I was going.
You know it's strange being a person. I used to have bad thoughts, or thoughts I thought were so bad that they needed to spill out of me in the most confidential of ways, like when they have to treat coma patients in clean rooms; the conditions scrubbed and prepped. It's stupid. Everyone is tired; everyone is mean and hungry and pissed and dirty all the time.
Fall is colorless this year. It's a muted palette, a watered down painting in the dirt. I doubt I would have noticed anyways.
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