A Letter for Marmots
I adore the way autumn seems to fall away from everything. The way the trees stretch and yawn in preparation for a long winter’s rest. The scent of their brethren crackling through someone’s chimney out into the crisp clean air. Even when an occasional breeze sends a peculiar buzz of warmth throughout the body — it’s different from summer.
Summer is the heat that burns any bare foot that dares tiptoe across concrete; the fire that scorches pallid skin despite numerous reapplications of SPF; the hovering muddle of humidity that shuttles anguishing bodies into their various air conditioned sanctuaries.
In autumn, nature is the sanctuary.
It is the goose-pimpling, toe-curling, sweater-craving chill that whispers through the trees; the liquid embers poured out over the landscape by the enormous setting sun; the flecks of gold and red and yellow and orange that gradually envelop the horizon; the enticing tingle of a hot beverage as it glides down the throat; the exquisite exhale that lingers just long enough, before it winks into the atmosphere.
It is by far the most sprightly of seasons, welcoming any and all childlike fantasies accumulated throughout the year that, save for October’s conclusion, are always swatted away. For who could be so foolish as to imagine? So silly as to dream? To create? Follies, assuredly, that ought to be snuffed out at the first opportunity. But for one night, all of the freaks and creeps and dreamers and creators band together, plundering house after house, armed with nothing but a pillowcase and their whimsy, until finally they collapse from such splendid exhaustion and unconsciously continue their adventures.
Such is the life of one who secretly journeys to lost islands, floats atop clouds, and dives beneath waves in pursuit of some amorphous treasure. Indulging in these imaginary rambles, if only for the pleasure of rambling, may very well be the most delightful facet of adolescence. Why the ability to do so eventually comes to an end, and why, inevitably, the tolerance for spontaneous amusement dwindles down to zero, I will never fully comprehend.
Perhaps the world rejects such childish minds out of spite; perhaps they too wish they could feel the wind tousle their hair as they gaze into the infinite abyss of possibilities that lie before them. Regardless, adulthood finagles its way through life’s knotted nest, ultimately pulverizing any shred of individual creativity. We are thrust into the “real world,” as if reality were some quest at which to either succeed or fail, the latter substantially more likely.
What if, then, the thoughts did not simply vanish but — say — were transported to some alternate realm of consciousness? What if our inner children hid from the cruelty and escaped beyond the reach of reason? Then would we not possess the capability of reawakening this suppressed being?
The globe grows warmer, intensifying our anger and fear and pain and sorrow — we risk catalyzing a cycling summer, without the repose of autumn’s embrace. But if for a moment, the child crept up to the window, pressed her sunny cheeks against the glass, and peered out into the world, would she not discover a place of purity? For in summer she cowers indoors, gazing longingly through her distorted reflection at the land that lies just beyond her grasp. But when the first leaf flutters to the earth, the heat evaporates leaving not even a droplet of sweat on her brow.
