painting, panting, clenching, clutching.

I'm not usually so self conscious about what I put on here but for some reason I have this insanely overwhelming feeling that no matter how cryptic I am, someone is going to know what I'm talking about. So I'm going to paint a picture instead. 

My picture is going to be painted in a paragraph or less. It's a paint by words and there aren't very many colors to it, just a lot of reds and oranges and pinks. The first step to seeing my picture is to imagine the most beautiful sunset you've ever seen. Now take that sunset and set it against the blackest hills you can imagine and take a snapshot of what this sunset looks like at it's purest and  most beautiful moment. The ratio of orange-red and black has to be just right. Now imagine yourself somewhere high up, watching this sunset and doing something that puts you at ease. Are you holding someone's hand? Are you wearing a certain jacket? Are you there with a group of people or are you alone? Whatever it is, imagine it. Feel it. Now take another snapshot. Next, I need you to imagine you are somewhere you are completely comfortable being holding that last snap shot in your hand. You're looking at this picture and you're remembering that feeling from that moment. Everything should be orange-red, black, comforting, and warm. Finally, the last step to seeing my picture is to close your eyes and take a very deep breath while clenching your fists. Hold this breath in for a second while you imagine that picture. Now exhale slowly while unclenching your fists as your breath leaves your body.

And that, my friends, is a masterpiece. 

"It's strange that words are so inadequate. 

Yet, like the asthmatic struggling for breath, 

so the lover must struggle for words."

-T.S. Elliot

I'm much more the asthmatic struggling for breath than I am the lover struggling for words; I have the words, just not enough breath to so much as whisper them. I'm asphyxiated for much of the day, but I get along just fine- I never was one for breathing much anyway. Aside from that, who needs a voice these days? We let our fingers do the talking; our cameras do the seeing; our computers and calculators do the thinking. I get by just fine doing nothing they tell me I need to do.

But enough of that nonsense. Let's talk October.]

If every month were like October, the world would smell and taste and feel so much nicer. BUt I'm glad every month is not like October; I like that there are only 31 days out of the year that the Universe can sabotage for me. The rest of the days don't always matter much to me.

I want to go pretend I can pick up pumpkins.

I want to drink Pumpkin Spice Lattes.

I want to shiver in a sweater and watch the sunset and bask in the orange glow that is October air.

Nothing's gonna change my world...