Good grief, you spend what feels like two minutes off the radar because you are ill, and next thing you know it is the end of the week, and you haven't done half of what you wanted to do at the beginning, and there are another three loads to put in, and the other two still to iron and, suddenly, it is autumn.
When I went out on Monday, I didn't see half as many dead leaves as I did today, neither were most of the trees sprayed with tentative muted hues of reds, coppers and bronzes. Today it was everywhere and it stirred inexplicable feelings deep inside. One second I was feeling like fist-pumping the air, yes, autumn is here, how grand, how fab, and the next the weightlessness of sadness crept upon me like November fog on a lake. I do not even know what I am sad about. Maybe that's because I am not sad at all, just anxious about many things. I must admit that walking, or trying to walk, as if a lump of lead was strapped at the base of my spine did not help proceedings. As time went by the strain took over, in that familiar pain-becomes-anxiety-becomes-more-pain way that eventually landed me on my doorstep with a clammy veil of cold sweat upon my face, as if wet chiffon had been stretched over it.
I wish I too could shed the old leaves, could peel off all of the crinckling layers like an onion. A year ago I thought that crossing the finishing line of my PhD would have been the best day in my life and now I cannot even tell you when that day was. When you can fly in each and every direction, you may well end up flapping your wings on the spot like a hummingbird forever poised by the same flower. Not that a big girl like me could successfully compare herself to a dainty, insect-like bird but if you allow me this artistic licence, then I am sure you understand what I mean.