The Fullest Month
— A portrait of seasonal depression
September is a month of fullness. Fullness of the mind with bricks that wreck where they should build. Fullness of the heart with cyanide waves that drown you alive.
September is the fullest month. Out the leaves fall, in the mind fills. Heavy is the thing upon my shoulder. Heavy is the fall of each foot, carrying a ship that would not unload.
Would I not be blessed if my thoughts fell to the ground, swept far away by the swift autumn wind?
Fall, the sparrow of winter — it speaks of secret treasures buried in the soft soil of spring and sealed by the summer heat, so that it may bury them deep within its frost grave.
In a box made of ice, I am sealed. Neither dead nor alive, until spring melts off the lid and in its embrace, suffocates me with life.
