It’s a little bit much but I wrote this today. A Descriptive Essay of sorts? Maybe I can use it for something in the future. Either way, it’s a melodramatic glimpse into my psyche. WOOT WOOT. Ahem:

Today was the first glimpse I had of autumn. It seemed early but again I remind myself that for Western New York, fall is just in time. It’s raining today and for the first time there is a chill that is keenly autumnal. I felt it today while driving in the car. I passed a branch of a tree and out on the limb, the edges of the leaves were already bits of auburn and gold. I was instantly excited and now the smell of apple pie seems so very close.

I’ve been taking a lot of quiet time lately. Sometimes I hate the fact that I have to drive off campus to get home–it seems easier for those who walk back to their dorms and on-campus apartments. But I don’t have that option anymore and so when class is over, I get in my little silver Escort, turn to NPR on 88.7 and drive the almost exactly 14.5 minutes home. And it *is* home. A little bit.

I have to open three doors and walk up three flights to get here, but I get here. I hang my bag over the coat closet doorknob, I walk into the living room and flick on the lights. Sometimes at night, I open up the linen closet to make sure no one’s crouching there, ready to pounce. Most of the time I’m okay. And I can sit at my desk and check my e-mail without turning around too many times to be sure no one’s behind me.

The medicine cabinet in the bathroom is full of my various lotions and powders which firmly establish me as a pampering hog. The bathtub is clean (for now) and on the shelf against the wall are my shampoo and conditioner, all lined up. There’s a random razor and some facial cleanser and of course, on the faucet, my yellow loofah limply hangs, still dripping from the morning’s shower. The vanilla candle on the top of the toilet, the “Milk and Honey” handsoap on the sink, the powder blue bathrobe hanging behind the door, all these things owe their existence to me. I have claimed this space.

The television is on the floor because I need tools to set up the stand that I bought for it. Instead of calling friends for screwdrivers, I gave up immediately and the various bolts and pieces of metal scatter the carpeted floor of the living room. There are posters (finally!) on the walls and they are slices of me as well: Renoir’s “Two Girls At The Piano”, a few Will Rafuse caricatures in the hall and in the kitchen, my calendar of Paris, Marilyn Monroe in the bedroom and way too many Degas paintings to be legal. The bookshelf is stacked with my class necessities–a Shakespearean dictionary, Dance in Education–and also with leisure items, Michael Moore rantings and David Auburn’s “Proof”.

Ah yes, this is a dramatic liberal apartment!! But it is mine. And don’t I love to own things? Down to the little white Wal-Mart toaster and my fridge full of too much cheese and V8. The cabinets are pretty bare and I think this is because there are simply too many for me to fill up! The ones that I do use are very nearly empty and contain just a few bowls, just a few plates, a colander, some tupperware. But the counters are clean and the dishwasher’s brand new, though I have yet to even use it. There’s something about suds in the sink that is strangely soothing.

I type now by the open windows and tonight I can hear the rain and feel the breeze. It isn’t a cool summer breath but a chilly autumn draft. I shiver and yet I can’t bring myself to close the window because I’m so in love with that scent. And I sit here and wonder why I bother opening windows when at times the chill becomes too great to bear.

Are we better off with the windows open? We are exposed, for certain, though I suppose if things get to be too overwhelming we could draw the blinds or hang up some curtains. But those are very weak barriers when your soul is involved. The sunlight still peaks through and the rain splatters on the edge of the sill. Sometimes all I want to do is shut all the windows and hide. I am safe in here, after all, three doors in, three flights up. No one can get to me. The house is old but the walls are solid. This is all me.

How frustrating then for me to open windows! I never learn. I open them one at a time, again and again and each time I hope that it will be a lasting summer breeze. Instead, I’m met with autumn chills and a cold feeling up the spine and into the chambers of the heart. Should I let my love be so naked when I’m so high off the ground? Should I open windows when I know it’s cold outside? And why do I keep them open?

When do you know that it’s time to close those gaps? When it snows? When it storms? When frosty fall is ruthlessly battled down by a darker, more frigid season? These questions go unanswered as I sit and I can hear the cars outside on Main Street, their tires whizzing by through the puddles and the muck in the road. I suppose weather is destined to change and seasons are doomed to evolve. Am I then too?

Do autumn chills always end in winter? And do you inevitably reach that point where it gets to be too much and you slam the window down and latch it shut? I wonder if there is a way to brace myself for the cold without that finality. I question if I can save myself the pain of the slam and wrenching of the latch against the world. I am struggling to snuggle deeper into the covers and even turn the heat up if I need to. I will keep that window open if only for the fact that to shut it would be the biggest heartbreak this third floor apartment has ever known. Peace.