Pyromaniacal

It's autumn. Green burns to red fades to brown. A thoroughly depressing time of year, (even if it can be bracing and beautiful), because it's the precursor to winter. Con Hall looks wonderful all lit up by those old-fashioned lights if you walk past after dark, crinkling through the dry leaves.

I'm a summer child; from the desert to the tropics, bone-dry or humid, I love it. I still haven't got the hang of winter though. I was half-heartedly cleaning my room today, sorting through the piles of paper and folders most of which will just get moved to another location in my room and I found scribblings on my dislike of the next season. Like a lot of my scribblings, it's on the back of someone else's poetry. For some reason inspiration seems to hit me in the middle of my English classes, maybe that's why I haven't written anything decent since the end of the last course I took. I fully expect to lose this scrap, or at least lose track of it for a few years as I did with my desert poem so I I'm going to include it in this entry, slightly edited:

In the winter all I can think of is the cold that envelops me and the warmth I'm missing. Just think, right now, at this very moment, while flurries mist the night, elsewhere there are sandstorms and a scorching sun. I wilt here in dragging February days; painful leap year.

I miss the old greenhouses by Queen's Park, the slick humidity inside that presses like an embrace as I peer at the labels; Latin names on pots and stakes. Summer used to rustle there, the city sliding away as I'd close my eyes and taste the earth on my tongue through the air I breathed in.

When I sleep, I dream of heat.