Come, fall. Come, fall.

Cuz come fall, I'll be gone.

Fall is supposed to be here, but it's still a muggy swamp. Perhaps next week, things will change, so I can feel that way again.
Strangeness has already overtaken me though. There's a fraction of disappointment (that stupid dumb beautiful angel I hate to love), an ever-growing urge to see a familiar face of a stranger (but our paths haven't crossed yet this semester), a budding, ever-growing barrage of smiles from the redhead (that not stupid not dumb beautiful I'd love to love), there's hope (I spoke more than two words), there's work, there's schoolwork, there's Skyward Pyre.

Oh yes, Skyward Pyre is becoming bigger and bigger by the day, more dense and deep and dark. It's a horror story on all fronts. It's terrifying in its imagery, its characters, and worst of all in its morals. The only thing for sure is the paranoia.

I don't know what to make of everything, but today during all this strangeness, I came across an epiphany. A line drawn on a chalkboard about time being linear, a story, reminded me that these small seemingly meaningful events might soon be in the past, that every day a future is written, and I'm still the writer no matter how it feels.

It's all a matter of picking up the pen.