The wind in Wellington is easing, and rain has been scarce since early February. Autumn is coming, and the entire city seems to hold its breath in apprehension.
Unlike the anticipation felt in Spring when the desire to lunge one's self fully forward is undeniable, Autumn suspends us. We know winter is coming, but we're not quite ready to see it yet. There is a mixture of dread and disappointment, like the feeling a boy gets after chasing a girl all Summer: He stands at the train station ready to board, and she waves goodbye. Will he kiss her, or will he forget her forever? The scene plays out forever: the boy chooses an infinite number of possibilities an infinite number of times, but by the same argument, he is infinitely on the platform with one sneaker in the door, suspended in the season of farewell.
1 comment:
A big of Keats in that--never will they kiss, but do not fear, she will not fade....
But then you go read his letters to Fanny when he was dying in Italy, and it turns out he was full of shit and that kiss really was the most important thing. Ah Keats, he died too consumed.
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