There's something that feels really great about autumn mornings. I can get up early and watch the sun rising through my window while its fire-y glow paints the dull walls of my room. It's like a sense of beginning, of promise, of bright things waiting for me to catch up with them.
That's what September has always done to me: making me feel like I have a new chance to create, and live, and fuck things up. I get to go to university again, and having been a student my whole life, I know of no better brand new start than September. Each year brings more difficulties with it, but they feel like a sheen of dust covering an ancient writing machine: blow the dust away, and all you get are infinite worlds and possibilities held by your own two hands.
It is still hot, but when I wake up at 6:30 a.m and I walk to the underground station for my daily commute, the freezing morning wind cuts my cheekbones and makes me feel really conscious about all the good things I have, and of how happy I am for a person that wakes up at fucking six in the morning. This autumnal breeze smells of sea salt and dying leaves, but also of promises. New courses get me all excited with the unexpected.
There are things I know will happen. There's the certainty of dark circles under my too shiny eyes, of hurting wrists and throbbing finger calluses after intense note taking in class, of whiplash that leaves me out of breath, of back muscles as taut as tightropes. There's the certainty of ink stains in my hands and of hurried handwriting in notes I can't even understand. There's the certainty of feeling trapped in my bedroom after too many hours sitting before my textbooks and there's the certainty of a full yellow moon lightning a path on the sea while my mom and I look silently at all of it from our terrace. There's the certainty of crying and laughing and loving again and again, of seeing my niece get bigger and smarter every day, and of having my nose bit by her growing aching teeth. There's the certainty of fashionable winter clothes and of painting my lips with a burgundy lipstick that is not dark enough for my liking.
But there are so many other things I don't know will happen, or how they will happen, that I shiver just with the thought of it.
Maybe I'll see a fully starry night sky this year for the first time in my life. Maybe I'll learn how to identify all of those starts I'm dying to see. Maybe I'll go back to that cozy country hotel I used to love when I was a child, all wood and stones and greens and browns, a place surrounded by chestnut trees. Maybe I'll get to sit there, in a plush sofa in front of the roaring fireplace, listening to the rain splattering on the windowpanes and waiting for the rain to stop so I can go and venture myself in the woods. But I'll also feel blessedly content in that moment, when there's rain and security and coziness all around me and the only thing I want is to stop time right there, letting myself to feel so alive that it even hurts.
Maybe this year I'll come to terms with the fact that I'm a hopeless romantic. Who knows if I'll get kissed this year, if I'll have one of those moments in which you feel absolutely ok with who you are, if there'll be nights of confessions shaped with warm breath and hushed tones, even though no one can hear us, while our heads are comfortably laid on a pillow with just the right space to speak with our lips barely touching and our noses bumping each other every time we move. I don't know when the fleeting touch of a hand, or the pressure of a firm thigh against my own under a table, or a shy cautious look that speaks volumes will make a tingling sensation run down my spine until it reaches my toes, curling them with anticipation. Maybe I'll fall in love this winter. It seems like a very apt season to fall in love, truly, wholly, and stupidly into it.
I don't know which things will disappoint me, and I don't know all the wonderful moments that lay ahead of me. I'll keep coming off as an independent woman, but maybe this will be the time in which I learn how to wear my heart on my sleeve and I won't mind admitting that I crave simple physical contact as much as I crave the oxygen I breath. I don't know which movies and songs will make my heart beat faster, and I don't know which songs that I haven't listened to in years I will come across, drowning me in fond memories of 'better times'. I can't wait for all the planned trips that will never be and the unexpected ones that will turn out to be invaluable adventures. Maybe I'll get to travel by train, and that'll make me fall head over heels in love with life again. Everything will come crushing down on me, and it'll feel wonderful.
I'll wait expectantly for rainy days and hot chocolate cups, and hopefully I'll grow a bit more this season. I'll turn 21 and that won't be terrifying at all. Maybe I'll get into driving again, and I'll have bad days and good days and everything that comes in between, and everything will be alright.
It is all worth it.
I'll keep living and I can't think of something better than that.
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