Monday, November 21, 2011

Journal 18

The perfect autumn day is something hard for me to describe. My ideas about it are so general that I hardly know where to begin. I suppose the most important thing would be to spend time outside.

The real defining thing about good autumn days is the amount of time spent outside. The weather does not even have to be warm and sunny, as I find that the cold and rainy days have equal if not more melancholy charm. Early in the season it is easy enough to have a great day outside. I remember earlier this year that I spent one day playing guitar in the park, walking around the town, and breaking and entering. That was one of the best days I have ever spent, and with such company that an hour seemed like an age.

Then later in the season, when the weather turns colder, I find enjoyment in bracing myself against the cold. Often this time of year I get such an agitation of spirit that I have no choice but to walk in restless haste until I have quieted my thoughts. These days are often sad and painful, but there is such beauty in pain that I am almost inclined to call these days my favorites.

Now I have worked myself up into such a state, and I would like nothing more than to storm around the room, ranting and railing internally. However, as that is not socially acceptable, I will content myself to running my fingers over the keys and hope that it produces the same effect.

I suppose to state my ideas in brief, a perfect autumn day is one in which the weather works my feelings into such a state that I have hardly words to describe. It is the kind of feeling one gets when reading poetry, and the feeling poets have when writing. It is a sort of vehemence that makes the rest of life seem tame. How can a day that produces this feeling be anything but perfect?

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