It's the first day of fall. And two days before my birthday.
And for whatever reason I can't seem to shake this feeling of stagnant funkyness. As though something awkward is growing in me, overshadowing what should be the youth and faith of the season.
Normally the fall is my favorite time of year- the world is cooling off and summer is fading into a warm, wistful memory. The days seem clearer yet stormier; they seem full of potential even while tapering off to earlier and earlier sunsets. In a witchier calendar, it's the time of collecting, gathering, and internalizing (maybe that's the problem?!?!... errrrr....) Regardless, the fall is special to me, meaningful.
Except for... well, this one at this moment.
There's something amiss and I suspect it is just me. Just me being me. I suspect the stagnant funkyness is a condition to being still for too long and quiet for even longer. I suspect that my fitfulness and strained reaction to, literally, everything is a form of self destruction. I am very good at self destructing. I could almost make a career of it. It is just me being me: inhaling, exhaling, overthinking.
My ricochet brain is in overdrive because of that cooler weather, those quicker sunsets. And it's spiraling all around a sense of timelessness- or time standing still. Me standing still within time, witnessing the passage and power of it, the ultimate passenger.
There's also a chance that I'm having a midlife crisis.
So there's that.
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