Dear Autumn,
I feel that with the arrival of you, my favourite season,
I have found myself on a path that I wanted to never again tread.
Whilst your leaves are falling, they do not crunch
like they have in the years that have passed.
And it's started to rain, Autumn. The novel that is my life,
it detests the pathetic fallacy you provide.

Last week your wind forgot me, forgot to fill my lungs
with life and hope and I still struggle to breathe.
I did not shake because of the cold, Autumn,
but because of this cave, full of puppets and shadows and -
Autumn, I am not rooted any more but I'm not free.
And I fall, Autumn, like the rain and like the leaves.

Waiting, waiting,
Or should I forget?
Image held in my mind,
Desires,
So many books,
And too many blogs,
But the word,
Content,
Stills the clashing voices,
Rest,
And the angst falls away,
In roar of beauty,
Yours.
Life is so much more,
I don’t have to marry,
Do I?
To know the true beauty of the mountains,
Or enjoy a starry night on the beach,
I remind myself,
love doesn’t last forever,
And this feeling of longing,
Won’t go away,
Chased by a dashing young man,
In life.
Only when the world is restored,
Will that piece of my heart,
Come back.

I do not fit in here. This universe is not for me.
This is not my reality.
Why do I have to live this life, with a broken heart and teared eyes, drowned in lies.
It's like nobody fully understand, that I'm living my life , but it's out of my hands. Like nobody sees, how much it kills to have this disease.

I feel as if there is a seed that was planted in all of us to search for definition, whether it be of self or of anything else, but search for definition none the less.
As if the things that provide the worth are even there, and not ever more present in the distance of two individual selfs.
As the past would show us, even in its weakest state, it is still distance that determines who is what.
It's so easy to forget that it's believed we spend our time searching for things, when really we're just trying to find where they begin.
Even though beginnings in themselves are easy to find since there so many of them, almost none of them are the same.
This also is why they are frightening; because there has never been anything in humanity's existence that is more terrifying than uncertainty, and finding a lack of, in places that were once full.

Everything turns into:
"There was so much here, and now there is nothing."

Eventually, you start to only think about the specifics in life that were absent from you, and you even try to remeber things you know were never there.
This happens to everyone at some point, and most never understand it when it does.
And at best, you learn to not see people as a place to go.