It seems the two halves of my self keep mixing in odd ways; the poetic beauty of trigonometry, for instance, or the sky changing over time as a function of geese flying south for the winter.
The wind has turned, and there is autumn in my veins, rushing through every piece of me, beating out the rythm of raindrops on leaves in my heartbeat, in the stutter of my breath at the sight of mist rising up from the ground. This is the changing time, the turning time, when every day brings something new and different to place before you as an offering.
October is too early for November, but autumn is the season of blood nonetheless; skin cracks and yields to the wind and the damp, and sores spring up like mushrooms in the ragged, half exposed corners of the body. It is a time for metamorphosis, for shedding our walls and leaving ourselves bare to the elements.
The air is heavy with the scent of decay, but olfactory memory associates it with new beginnings. So many things start with autumn, born out of the dying time as the year begins its swift slide into December.
This is the transition time, the moving time; it follows after the still, static summer with its wind and rain and falling leaves.
We too shall fall, subject to gravity and the inexorable weight of time. Our colors are always brightest when we fall, when we flutter, when we die.
(If November is the month of blood, surely October is the month of Glory.)
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