autumn madness
I'm highly sensitive to the weather. Maybe because I was born in autumn; maybe it's just a coincidence that many of my earliest memories are autumnal (not from my first year, of course); or maybe its drama simply fits my temperament — whatever the reason, autumn melts me down. Properly.
My mood shifts radically. For example, I can't remember the last time I actually wanted to get out of bed in the morning, but today, seeing a sky that was blue yesterday turn gray, and the wind that spent the whole summer warm and unnoticed now whistling through the rooms of my house, sometimes drowning out the patter of raindrops, I want to hop on a motorcycle and ride in the rain until I run out of gas — and I don't want to think about the fact that I don't have, and will probably never have, a motorcycle.
I feel like I'm slipping into a manic phase even without bipolar disorder. As if the sadness that's always there is suddenly justified, and I can stop worrying about it until snow falls and the outside world doesn't look miserable but magical.
But for now, before that happens, it's my turn to feel enchanted, and the world's turn to feel my ache. And it's an incredible release — I want to get out of bed, I want to explore new things and create even newer ones, I want to be the fiercest enemy of the dishonorable and the truest friend to the weary. I even want to meet new people (though I probably won't).
I don't know the mechanism, I don't know the secret, but somehow I feel so alive I want to share it. Maybe because it won't last, because this is only the first, fantastic phase — next will come a painful blend of nostalgia, apathy, hatred, and euphoria. I'll literally not know what I'm feeling, but I'll feel something. Which is probably not a bad thing.