September

They say time heals everything. I say not everything heals with time. The days are deliberately losing their luster due to a scheduled shift in the universe. Most people think of fall as the official end of summer, leisure and vacation. The air becomes meaner, crisper and more haunting. The sun retreats to the other side of the world, or better yet, we retreat inward and away. But they don't realize that autumn is a perfect calibration of elements and essence. I walk along the river with a shaken heart and sense the four elements quietly at work: Agua, Tierra, Viento y Fuego. The fifth element eludes me; it hovers somewhere far beyond my reach, and I wonder if that's the reason why I feel so empty. Can it be true? Is the celestial sphere merely just a geometrical projection for astronomers to locate celestial objects instead of a physical reality? If so, then how can we know where we stand on any given day? How do I know those stars flung way up high in the quiet night sky are really dead? Why does such a calculated alignment of centers despite an imperfect celestial tilt evoke a low level dread in the pit of my stomach? The points meet in unison at a precise moment in time, and it serves as a comforting pattern to ponder after all the inconsistencies on a long strip of naked numbers. But then I remember it's just an illusion. As the last days of summer unfold before my eyes, I walk aimlessly along the river and all I hear is your voice lapping at the sunken banks. When the new year started, I expected nothing of the weeks lying dormant ahead of me. I feigned indifference if only to buy time in your presence. Now, almost 35 weeks later, I confess I always knew I could not tell which side you were standing on or what I was defending. Until defending the unknown left me standing all alone. I woke up on a recent rainy Saturday morning and couldn't remember when we had switched sides. And so it has been. The year progressed from winter to spring then summer. Now, fall is within reach and slowly descending upon my wounds. A wound is a cunning thing to behold, you know. Its depths reveal a story with vague fault lines, fractures and a considerable amount of pain without a voice. You can peer intently at its composition and dimensions but never really know why some wounds will heal and others won't. I walk back home with the four elements calmly nudging me along, my heart still in a wrangled state. The river is cloaked in shadows and darkness, and I can scarcely see the path that will lead me out into the city again. I carefully step over discarded wine bottles and crumpled beer cans, as I hear the local critters scurrying around, but I don't feel fear anymore. I'm always humbled by what I see reflected here and what I don't.