Ghosts of Autumn

October and November elicit a certain range of emotions for me. I used to think it was the cool weather that brought these particular feelings, but over time I've come to the conclusion that most of the rationale behind why I feel the way I do in these months is the result of past experiences. I cannot postulate that those experiences of my past were particularly traumatic by the standards of many others I know, yet to deny that my resulting behavior in the years since was in some way shaped by those memories would be disingenuous at best.

The environment of autumn is where I first felt the flickering flame of teenage puppy love sputter to life; a crush that lasted for many long years and left it's own set of well-earned scars which most teenage boys end up with. A few years later, it was also the environment where I remember my breath catching as I uttered the words "I would love to see you again" for the first time. It was the coolness in which I first felt the warmth of someone's hand in mine, of late phone calls, and of long drives home in the wee hours of the morning. The following year, it was this autumn climate in which I found myself alone amidst the rite of passage of learning to be emotionally self-sufficient. In the years since, it has brought many other experiences, some bad, but many good; yet all experiences that are past and now live on only in memories, grainy photographs, and conversations with those I am blessed to count as my friends.

Autumn is no doubt my favorite season. You will rarely ever see a more beautiful scene than the Blue Ridge Parkway teeming with sundry hues as deciduous trees prepare for their winter hibernation next to their evergreen friends ready to stand watch over the Appalachian winter. There is little more I love to feel than those first cool breezes glancing off my sun-wearied cheeks when golden hour begins to arrive earlier. However, Autumn also brings with it a solemnity to the doorstep of my mind. It reminds me of good things, but the longing to feel the warmth that was present at the genesis of those memories cannot be separated from them. When the memory itself begins to blur and details start to fade, the feeling remains to remind me that something good has happened here, but it also reminds me that I'm no longer able to experience it, and leaves a grim reminder of all the pain that later resulted.

A friend of mine recently gave an observation of feeling that led me down a trail of thought. He writes here as well so I do not want to spoil his opportunity to expound upon that thought if he so chooses, but the observation did spur me down a path to this conclusion: I believe rationality is what constrains me from acting on these feelings. Emotion screams where rationality whispers, and rationality lives where feeling does not.

When these ghosts of autumn return, I find myself compelled by their echoes, bound by rationality, and doomed to have not moved a step when upon their return next year along with the ghosts of this year.