I started to write because I thought I had something to say. I added words, musing about the impermanence of leaves, the fleeting moments of the season and of death. The draft did not save and my words were gone.
It was raining again, all day, and the darkness of the season had become apparent. It didn't look like fall, much. The street was damp and full of thick puddles, and the leaves just looked sad. I don't know where the colors had gone, so I ran through the rain and the dark to run on a rotating belt inside. The earth turned, slowly, and the clouds became lighter. I ran back home, past school buses and warm cars. I jumped over puddles. I felt my socks dampen and then soak through. It was still mostly dark inside too.
I was in front of my computer. I looked for news on relevant topics, posted on social media to many people who scroll past millions of posts, their eyes glazed, commuting to somewhere more interesting, sitting in a meeting from which they needed distraction, pretending that their lives were more important than mine. I put whipped cream in my coffee because it tasted burned and it was Friday and everyone needs a small pleasure, right?
I paid the bills. I listened to the phone ring. I sat, heavy with my self. I counted my bank balance and watched emails come in and out, offering up new trips to exotic locations, or new clothes I could not afford. The plants needed watering, but I ignored them. Their leaves were fresh and green and artificial in the neon light. I kept my mouth shut and re-laced my boots. I couldn't tell if it was still raining outside.
I tried to walk, but there was no destination in mind. I had to ignore the drug-addled individuals, weaving and loping past. They scared me more than the impending Halloween season. I looked for my reflection in the sole glass window, and didn't know who stared back at me anymore.