Some people bring out the best in you, some bring out the worst. And then there are those remarkably rare addictive ones who just bring out the most. Of everything. They make you feel so alive you’d follow them straight into hell, just to keep getting your fix.
– Karen Marie Moning
It’s just that time of the year. October, with its purpling skies and orange backdrop. With its smell of bonfires and warm vanilla sugar. There’s this nip in the air that makes it a bit harder to get out of bed every morning. I push my foot out from under the covers and quickly pull it back in. No. This can wait.
Whatever it is, it can wait.
The trees are busy showing the world how lovely it is to let go of the inert. I walk on pavements, occasionally smiling with these lips more scar tissue than skin as I saunter out of my way to step on a crisp leaf, brown from having lost its soul, still making me smile in its afterlife, and I think to myself how this fallen leaf can be dead and still dance like it does on a windy day.
It’s so easy to be completely wrong about people. To see one tiny part of them and confuse it for the whole. What if we only notice the unfamiliar parts later? Sometimes we see something perfect and we fall in love. Sometimes we get lessons and sometimes we get lucky. In time we see the imperfections, and we either get scared or we fall in love even more. Or both. People can be adventurous these days and souls do not have calendars or clocks, nor do they understand the notion of time or distance. They only know it feels right to be with one another.
I could write a dictionary on all the words I have used to describe how it feels to have finally, finally found him. But ask a painter and he’ll tell you, there are olive green, bottle green, peacock green and sea green, but not a green in the world can capture the image in the painter’s mind.
Well, I think I found my green. Is there a word for that?
No one can tell you what goes on in between the person you were and the person you became. There is no conversation, no overlap in time or space. There’s just a feeling. The kind of feeling people write novels about. It’s the oldest story in the world. One day you ask someone their name and the next, you can’t imagine a time when that name wasn’t set on your tongue like stone, repeated over and over again through the day in every tone and decibel level possible because he makes you happy and sad and crazy and excited and furious all at the same time. You feel your walls coming down like dried leaves, and you smile even though you’re terrified, because intuition says you should.
Peace is not an infinite state. It exists in fleeting moments, silent more often than not. Eyes meet, fingers brush, sometimes there’s no contact at all. It’s just in the air. And you spend all your time with this person in silence, and try not to laugh at the days when you fought with people for space, not knowing that your space was a person. There’s no peace in the world like being in love with someone who wants to be loved. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
They fill up your glass with responsibility for their smiles and tears and you take it with open arms because this can’t wait.
Whatever it is, it’s the green in your autumn and it can’t wait.
I think I like who I’m becoming.