November is like being 15 - it's too late to turn back,
and you just sit on a stool, mistaking emotions
and performance with reality ; dread and apprehension
with future.
November is neither the heart nor the lungs, it is only
a pathway, an opening, an invitation we can't refuse, as
if we were mere individuals trapped in the social game.
November is eternal. It is the first and the last
month, one in which autumn has died and winter is yet to
come. In that gap, in that void, in that emptiness November
lives forever.
November is like being 35 - you stand confused with your
broken dreams and lost aspirations, blinded, and all that
remain are those close to you, huddling together in
preparation for the cold times ahead.
November always comes back and yet we are never quite
prepared for it, mistaking a number on a calendar with
an experience to be lived, daylight variations with
emotions to be shared.
November, seventeenth, two thousand and thirteen. Again.