cinnamon & october

recuperation

a recuperation, monotonous and dreary, with dosages of fluoxetine, and now i’ve been breathing quite well for a week. the world outside will soon settle into autumn, and i think i’ll likely do the same. the seasonal shift is undeniable now, and i can already feel winter pulling me under. it’s only a little more than ten days into october, and i need to remind myself to breathe from time to time. and if i allow myself to breathe, maybe then i’ll remember that i’ve been here before- i’ve made it through. i think i’ve been running for so long, i don’t even notice when i’m out of breath.

the reason that i haven’t been posting for so long is partly that i haven’t had one decent coherent thought to put down. i’m scared i won’t be able to get all my thoughts out on paper, and that no matter how hard i try, no matter the time i’ve spent with someone, they wouldn’t understand me if they didn’t want to.

i look out the window, and the trees are starting to turn, small bursts of red and gold against the sky. yet, i spiral back to substantiality, sitting here, swimming, drowning, sick with longing, alone in my room, with only my voice to crowd me again. cautiously, i try to allow myself to feel good at times, however forced may it be, but necessary nonetheless.

sometimes, i think about how long life can feel- how we spend years building, losing, chasing, and waiting for something more. what end of waiting? what possibility? what are we waiting for, exactly? the waiting would always seem endless. and in the process we’d forget how to live in the moment. i suppose waiting has a way of dulling possibility, making it seem distant, almost unreal. the longer i wait, the more i wonder if the possibility was ever there to begin with- or if it’s just a story i’ve told myself to keep moving further.

life felt bittersweet until i realised; the magic behind childhood wasn’t because i was a child, partly, maybe, but because i was present, because the world still felt untouched, full of wonder. i hadn’t yet learned to question the joy in simple things, or to overthink the absurdity of just being. it wasn’t that i was a child; it was that i hadn’t yet learned what it means to lose that wide-eyed wonder.

i almost wish we were butterflies, and lived but three summer days- unaware of the brevity of life, surfing the air, swirling in the fields of milkweed and vervain, basking in the sun, untouched by the weight of immortality.

winter will come soon enough, but for now, i’ll allow myself this moment of stillness, knowing that i’m still grounded, still here, recalibrating.