I sit and write by the light of the street lamp outside my window. The breeze that slides by is cool and refreshing. The night air is lovely and almost makes wish I liked camping. I really don’t, but on nights like this, I could pretend. Fall is in the air; I can feel it. I sense it in the wind, which is turning from playful to pensive. I can smell it, as trees begin to pull life in, getting ready to sustain themselves for another long Chicago winter. The clouds are no longer rolling, eager to make their summer rounds. They drift. They take a break before winter storms through with its icy demands. The colors have changed. It’s subtle, but it signals the start of pumpkins and gourds over melons and berries.
I saw my first fall wreath yesterday. It was in CVS. Soon my neighbors will put up fake leaves and spider’s webs and sheets meant t obe ghosts.
I take a long gulp from my glass of warmed milk. I can’t sleep. It’s the reason I’m out here, tucked into my baby blanket. Late nights me pensive and nostalgic. Especially this weekend.
I can’t remember a time when I’ve felt more alone or scared. Or less confident. Maybe in Spokane. I felt so…horrid there. Like I was nothing. But I feel that way now sometimes. Like the family that God gave me here in the city is gone. And I’m left alone. I know that I’m not. I have several friends here. But rationality isn’t exactly my strong suit. I just want to be always surrounded by people who love and understand me. But my life isn’t a novel.
The more I think about that, the more I realize that I wouldn’t want it to be. There are moments in life that simply cannot be captured in words. Moments that are full of peace. Even that word is too little. But joy is too much. And it’s not mere happiness either. I live my life on a roller coaster of emotion that all too often cannot be explained or limited to words. A novel would be too confining for me. Would I really want the richness of each emotion to be tempered by words? Sometimes you need to simply FEEL.
I just need to drink my milk, empty my mind. I’m sure sleep will eventually come. And tomorrow will start and end in a normal way. Alone. I don’t really feel like I’m worthy of companionship. Sometimes, not always.
Thinking of that made me think of something McMath always said. God didn’t save us because we’re good, but because He is.
I settle and feel the colder air nip at my toes, another promise of autumn. I’ve rearranged all the cushions during my writing time. Should I redo it. Tomorrow is soon enough. They’re only cushions. My eyes grow heavy with the promise of sleep.