Autumn is thrashing. And it is that time, again. Perhaps the time in which the seasons become a changeling, or perhaps it is a return.
Isn't this the human condition?
"All that I am missing is faith that all things will favour me," these are the words of my greatest companion.
In the days prior, we fought. Then reconciled. Such is relationships that has lasted from gestation in the womb to the tumultuousness of adulthood. Or, rather, waithood.
I am now in an eternal chamber of waiting. To say, I ask myself often, "What is it I am waiting for?" And the only answer I can produce is that I am waiting on the world to act onto me. Such is Achille's Patroclus, to say the inactive protagonist is no different.
Even within the onset of the calendar year, I, who is ceaselessly waiting, feels the closure of time pressing around me. Why is it that the world's beginnings are always my own return?