LOST/LOSS

I am wandering in the same spirit that began this blog more than three years ago. The ghost of Walter Benjamin still speaks clearly to me, his voice ringing loudly in my ears.

I fear, however, that I have wandered into parts unknown. I have no map. I don't know where to place my foot. I can't remember how to take a step. My senses fail me. Shadows dance before my eyes. My nose is filled with the smell of wood smoke from logs that are being burned too green and wet. My tongue is thick.

I contradict myself.

Perhaps it is due to the length of summer and the great joy I derived from it—walking through woods and across fields, wandering up the sides of mountains and alongside rivers, plastic discs in hand and baskets within sight. Perhaps it is the sense of loss that comes as the leaves begin to fall and lighter fabrics are replaced by wool and artificial fleece. Perhaps it is the draining of light and the sickly salmon pink and gray that fills the sky just before dawn and daybreak.

At one time, I loved autumn. I don't dislike it per se, but I am less attracted to it. It mocks the twilight of my own summer. It hints at the winter that waits out there, somewhere.