Autumn Melancholy

 Autumn always brings some strange kind of melancholy to everyone around. Just that side of loneliness and sorrow, that could only be described as autumn melancholy. As much as rain brings sadness, the very scent of autumn sun brings these strange nostalgic memories, as though you're hundred years old and it's your right to reminisce all those years back, when grass was greener and trees was higher, and even this ghost of a sun was way warmer than now.

I'd like to bath in the lazy rays of this heated star, sitting on the porch of my comfy little and so own house, with a cup of hot milk and a toast with something resembling honey or simple fruit jam. I'd like to feel the comfortable numb feeling of nothing being up or wrong, or on a rush, to feel the gentle smile creeping through my eyes and on my lips, cracking my skin into riffle of these calm, calm happiness. And my thoughts. My thoughts are absolutely empty. I don't want to think about where am I, whom am I living with or how do I do. It all ought to be just fine for these mere moment of nothingness.

Every warm season nowadays calls for me to go on a journey, be it spring or summer and even autumn. I feel myself some strange mix of Moomins like Snufkin plus Moomintroll, one always longing to go far away and another - peacefully sleeping all winter long. But I can't help it. Just imagining the world running near me at the side of the road makes my skin tingle with anticipation.

And I can't write about autumn without saying a word about red colors and trees. Because these solemn dying of nature's the one thing that can make one's heart melt. Yes - trees are dying grass is dying and it's nowhere near rebirth. It's beautiful and calm, but the very scent of death in the air awakens the melancholy I'm writing about. Sometimes it feels like The Sun - The Great Traitor - abandons its children and leaves the Earth behind, running to find some better place to shine upon, and that's why all the living creatures, who lived just under the same sun, begin to die in despair.

But it's a crappy ending to such a lovely beginning, so I have to write something positive about my every-autumn melancholy.
I also feel like a child, reaching so far into the future, but still looking back onto it's own past, being so undecided and at the same time so full of expectations that every bone, every cell in my little body simply tears apart because of me being hang onto something inexistent.