Today was chilly and overcast, and I wore a jacket for the first time since spring. I took a walk along the river and smelled the smell of dying leaves, and saw the color fading out of things. Tonight I looked outside and realized all of a sudden that it was already dark. How did the day end so fast?
I wonder if fall and winter might be the best times of the year to be a writer. The shorter days, longer nights, the chill in the air that means you don't leave your doors and windows open to catch the breeze, it all compiles to create the feeling of being isolated and cut off from the rest of the world. It makes the urge to reach out, to call out (even if only in a whisper), all the more imperative.
I turn on the radio, creep to my desk, and turn on the lights to make up for what's gone from the sky. I start typing, or writing (I've got a letter to Camii by my side right now), and put the words together because if I can get them down, they can get to other people. Time is short. Winter's coming.
2 comments:
Dig it. I love cooler seasons. I can't wait for snow days, those are the best for writing.
Sometimes, even your blogs are prose.
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