ChillyinOctober

The spectre creeps, A shadow on the wall. Face him, there's nothing. Was it there at all?

Whose to say? The spectre comes and goes. Does it have a home, a body, ...a purpose? No one knows.

I've heard it said, That his mind is broken. Others say that in him, evil has awoken.

Oh, if only it could be helped. How could one soothe a ghost so grim? You needn't look far, for he is not hiding. You'll look, and stare right through him.

Once, he was a man. Now the world has cast him aside. Staying alive just to find humanity. God knows, he's tried.

Tis' the scorn of those around him, that banishes him to purgatory. To save him would be to contract the curse, That is the most of the short, sad story.

What can I say? You're out of my league.

You're beautiful, obviously. More than surface deep. I want to let you know. But I won't, I don't deserve to.

You're upstanding, strong, and humble. A decent human being. How can I tell you that, when I'm so much the opposite.

          My heart slowed and somehow, I understood. My terror soon faded, and I swelled with gnawing and bitter sadness. I knew I could choose. I was so tired. I decided that I was ready to go.

          I could feel the energy drain from my body and sink down down down. My heart slowed until it stopped. My mind churned as if my very consciousness was falling. I wasn’t scared. I was simply overwhelmed by grief. I could hear voices around me shouting, but none of it made sense anymore. I felt dozens of hands all over me. No doubt taking me to some sort of hospital, then to a morgue, and a casket.    

           But I decided to fight. I can’t remember why I did, only that it must’ve been quite important to me because I lived to tell the tale. I woke up in a strange bed covered in sweat, my heart racing. At least a dozen people, the other guests at the party, gazed at me… and they all looked like they had just seen a ghost.

   Where August is a sound carried by the wind, September is a feeling that starts as a buzzing in the stomach. It is warm, like the comfort of a hot cup of coffee or cider. Spreading slowly through the body, Autumn begins to wax. Little by little, the last tense notes of August begin to fade, replaced by the calm silence of rest. It washes over me.

   The scent of nutmeg, cinnamon, and pumpkin; it is equal parts electric shooting up the neck and contentedness. The rain and dew that usher in colder weather stirs the mind like a strong cup of espresso. Beholding the sight of a meadow lit up with the brilliantly bright hues of bronze and scarlet is to be transfixed with a feeling of immaculate peace.

    What is August if not the last fanfare of summer’s bright chorus? Dull heat, constant and pulsating, like the smooth line of a bass guitar. Wind blown through the trees giving birth to that familiar back-and-forth melody. And the cicadas chattering out a frenzied vocal. Every part moving in and out as if the song is uneasy and on the precipice of falling off.

        Adrian, it’s been ages since we’ve last spoke. How have things been? Are you well? I’ll forgive you if you can’t find the words to tell me how you feel because I can’t find them either right now. The truth is, Adrian, that I think we’re in a similar boat. I’ll try not to be too sentimental though. I know you’ve always been a reserved kind of person and I respect that. It takes a brave man to let everyone see their demons, but an even braver one to face them completely alone. That being said, I think you could stand to relax your defenses. Let your guards rest, sheath your blade, let the world embrace you… even if only for a bit.

           Adrian, I know how utterly terrifying it is to be vulnerable. I am the first person to wish for the safety of cold, towering ramparts; but we’ve got to dream beyond that. It’s true that you and I have borne many wounds, perhaps more than is our due. We’ve both built fortresses, massive and strong that will protect us, but will also keep us isolated. That is often so hard to see in our situation—just how cut off we truly are. You feel your soul degrading, but you tell yourself it is fine… and no one is there to say otherwise, so you begin to believe it. I know, I’ve spent so much time watching the world from my impenetrable castle.

I have this daydream I come back to whenever I need to block out the world for a minute. It's nothing special, everyone's probably thought about it before. See, theres a description of a particular beach on one of the energy drinks I used to buy. It was something about the north shore of oahu and how the waves come alive in winter, some crap to sell the drink to you. Yet, I feel like I've formed quite a pleasant fantasy from that description. It has stuck in my mind for whatever reason because whenever I can, I think about what that beach should look like.

The beach and the palm trees curve inward to form a little cove, one that isn't easily seen from the rest of the heavily crowded beach. The sand is white and undisturbed. The air is thick and heavy with humidity, the sun bears down. A lapping of crystal clear water is the only thing you can hear in my little cove. That silence is key because, as I sit in my lazy chair looking out to the ocean, I'll have time to think as much as I want. Birds may fly overhead, the stray couple or two might wander over to kiss, but nothing will ever break the peace of my cove.

Dear Mrs. Moira, I can't really find the words to begin. How long has it been? Do you even recognize me? Last time we talked I was much shorter and had fire in my eyes. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I'm doing alright. The times haven't been golden, but it isn't like I'm on the brink. It's just the drudge of the day to day that's still with me, I suppose. I don't want you to think that I've somehow given up or fallen off either. Believe me Mrs. Moira, I'll be fighting this fight until it kills me, as exhausted as that makes me feel.

Mrs. Moira, I don't want to be nosy, but I've heard the years have not been kind to you. Whispers swirl like pollen about the sky and it just makes me sad to think they might be true. Maybe one day we can share a drink and I can tell you about how I've been dealing with it too. All we can do is hope that they'll die with the passing of the season. Hell, even here in the balm of an indian summer, my soul calls out for October. It calls out for the days where things will be easier. When one can walk outside without squinting and straining in the blinding sunlight. When the trees shed the burden of leaves and we can shed the weight of our turmoils.  

First, down go the pictures. Ripped out of frame and thrust into fire. Then, the decorative centerpiece on the kitchen table. It’s thrust in a box and banished to god knows where. 

It’s of clothes and books sold at a yard sale. Of old letters I just can’t bring myself to read. Of an empty seat at dinner.

Soon we load the table itself onto a truck. It’s too large for the room anyway... Along with that old, creaky bed and all those dusty cassettes. I mean, what use are they after all...

It’s of home movies tossed in a dumpster. It’s of a bonfire sparking with charred curtains. It’s of broken cabinet doors and holes in the wall. 

But really it’s only of the one thing I try to forget most of all.