So, that last poem kind of sucked. I had the right idea, but I mostly hate how I arranged it. But sincerely, I do love Fall. That scent of the edge of life, it brings out something truly wicked feeling in me. The unearthing of memories, dark and vital, sometimes both, is overhwelming yet momentary, reminiscent of a failed climax. It seems I can only glimpse a second of the pure bliss until the lock has reset. And indeed, it is a most physical sensation, afflicting all of my senses. I find it amazing how just a chance differing scent or change of hue in the scenery can alter the perspective of a landscape I have seen so many times. Just when I feel I have been absolutely jaded to any secret offered about a place I have seen or been, I suddenly find something that invigorates and revitalizes a place to back when I looked on it for the first time with wonder, as if I had never remembered living there. I feel like being outside more suddenly, which is a shame, because I have less daylight now to take such an escapade. I sometimes wish someone read my writings, even if the only response is "Why yes, I know precisely what you mean". I should write more often. It would be a better use of my time, at least. I think I will attempt to write more poetry on here. I do feel a little more inspired. I never write when people expect me to write. Many poeple would expect posts on holidays, or on important matters, or after vacations. Just as you would for candid photos. I don't enjoy that sort of writing though. It just seems too cursory, and I write very impulsively. I don't like taking pictures while on vacation, either.
Even when I do, it's usually of the scenery, and almost nothing of what we're doing. I suppose documentation feels unauthentic at times. I would make a terrible field anthropologist. These fall memories of mine, they always seem unsatisfied. I have of course had reason to be unsatisfied in autumns of past years, but it seems to be a more ancient feeling, reaching much further back than atrocities of the adolescent years. It doesn't really have much to do with the season itself, I have weird feelings for every season of the year. But I love fall the most, perhaps because it does have this strange emotional impact on me that is so much stronger than at any other time. I feel like in order to get close to this feeling, it would require me getting lost, deep in the woods. Staying late into the evening. Becoming the dirt under the leaves. Not as in death, but something that slithers between my conscious and unconscious. I have problems elucidating; all I can really do is prevaricate to myself. Or perhaps I'm simply circumvaricating. Okay, I made up that word. I like it though. :P