Simone

I often draw comparisons between the changing natural landscapes of the seasons and the changing natural landscapes of my life. Most notable is my likening snirt (dirty snow) to the suppression of feelings.

Recently, upon a lengthy walk home down a busy county road, on which suburban homeowners are likely to neglect the raking of their sidewalks, either because it still quite early in the autumn season, or because they are entitled assholes who think no one has to walk on streets in which cars exceed a speed of 35 miles per hour, I had a realization.

The leaves I tread upon represent my optimism, my excitement, and all that made me so nervously excited for the school year to begin in the last few weeks of summer, despite the approaching reintroduction of homework and having to time your pees as to not detract from your academic studies.

In September, these leaves were green, still photosynthesizing on their respective trees. I was hopeful. They were hopeful. The score had not been set. We did not know what was coming.

But, things always seem to disappoint. My grades are incapable of being anything but lackluster. My decision-making skills are incapable of being adequate. People are incapable of being anything but shitty. These are challenges. The leaves, once vibrantly green, try to adapt. They turn red, and yellow, and orange. It’s beautiful.

It only lasts so long. The weather gets harsher. The leaves begin to give up.

And in many ways, my experience is similar. I’ve let workloads defeat me. Instead of continuing to alter my flawed procrastination habits, I enjoy a peaceful four hours of sleep a night, staying up late, or waking up early to finish work I easily could’ve completed at a reasonable hour. Instead of developing skills which would reflect developing fiscal responsibility, I rely on the crumpled five dollar bills I occasionally find while doing laundry. I assume every boy to harbor malicious intent, and accept fitting treatment from them. I don’t demand respect, or change, from anything, or anyone, not even myself.

Like the leaves, I tried. Albeit briefly and half-assedly. But it’s easier to just give up. To fall down, and be stepped on, and slowly disintegrate, and soon covered in snow and composted, and forgotten. ♦