Fall: A Brief Essay MAG

By John H., Fayetteville, GA

     So, Fall just started. It's sad to see Summer go. But you know, it's time for the cool sun to wake me instead of the bright ball of summer. The nights are covered by an azure horizon that comforts the heat-seekers as if to soothe, "See, my friend. It still will be blue skies all season long." The cool yet biting winds that enter my car are soft reminders of Fall's amazing glory. Its esteemed name was probably given as a gift from the pessimists of weather, believing it's a degenerate period. I can't argue this, for I can't remember ever noting the first day of the season. "The leaves fall," they say. But I assume they mourn the passing of the bone-warming weather, the sun that ceases to shine, and the inability to rest in the shade in minimal attire.

I would continue to say that people forget the importance of Fall, but I am uneducated in my experience with her. Time would allow me to notice this season in a condensed version if I were so fortunate. Give me something to marvel at and I will note your every move. The cliché "rhyme ... reason" is now her sole adversary and I am the knight to take her colors into battle. She brings out the bundled-up children and the purpose of housing. If I can see myself in a reflection, why can't I see her in every second of my walks? Maybe it's justice of the beast that keeps my walks to a minimum. Maybe it's the heart of the siren that tells me what I see, what I take to mind. In due time, the answers will be questions I'll ask again.

In Spring, you see, the idealized versions of people bloom. The flowers rising, the birds chirping, the destructive rain birthing the most sensuous children my eyes have ever gazed on. I can pick a tulip and smell her for minutes before I realize I should have let her stay. Her nectar would have been the food for bees, whose luscious honey could coat my throat. The birds and their hackneyed bee counterparts control the key to man's success: his instinct. So who's to say his instinct cannot be controlled by the seasons? Certainly there stands some secret to the power Spring possesses. I wish it were as simple as the air turning into the sweetness Cupid immerses his arrow tips in before marking his targets. Maybe it's the sun's warmth becoming lukewarm after breeding with the soft winds. Or the moon glowing more brightly than her brother. I could never say, for I merely write.

Just because one writes doesn't mean one understands. Only seasons understand their nature, just as I understand I am merely a writer. Writing about seasons would be like an Occidental scribe writing about the number of rice grains in the Orient: he can only write what he knows, guesses and assumes, but he will never approach the purpose of his paper.

Winter, when paper would become one with the new grass, seems like Fall's partner. I say this based on the way she makes the insects cling to the nature-side of a window seems to insist on her apologies for the discomfort. She preaches that her job is mandatory and that she too enjoys the warmth of Summer. The crunch of children's footsteps in her terrain reminds her of the nature she must break. The downfall is necessary, for otherwise, her children might rely solely on sunny skies and thus be unprepared for conflict and recognition of nature's balance. The men children are frozen, save their jovial smiles, reinforcing the aforementioned balance.

Winter asks us to stretch our fingers when writing; to bend our knees when walking; minds, talking. She is better than Fall, offering condolences for the necessary belittlement. She'll provide a new turf after inhibiting the growth of the former. She's beautiful in her blessings. The pinnacle of spirits is the mind Summer enchambers. He is the sun; he is the days that provide a gentle hug and a harsh kiss. Oh, if he were to last all year long! We would pace in glory. The Summer deserves an essay all to himself, and such shall he get. The sun he gives is the thesis for every ink-dweller. His greatness, undying.

So Fall has just started, and so has my endeavor to seek her greatness. She has long been neglected by past scribes. She will answer the questions I ask. I shall end here and prepare for the months she has chosen. Then I will understand and no longer be a writer.

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i love this so much!


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