I am sick of summer and I am sick of having nothing productive to dedicate my time to and I am sick of having no energy or enthusiasm for anything. I want to walk to class in the evening, wearing black velvet and crunching through dead leaves, smelling smoke on the chill air. I want little things to make my day. I want to procrastinate on work because I have something more fun to do, not just because I can't get up the energy to do it. I want to wake up at seven in the morning and bake cookies before class, just because I can. I want to go to class and get really angry at something and rage over it and then walk home under the first snowfall and think it the most beautiful thing ever. I want to cook and experiment and create, instead of barely having enough enthusiasm to open a can of soup. I want to make an adventure out of buying things for my apartment, even if it's one in my head, instead of passively going along with what my mom wants because I'm too apathetic to have an opinion. When I get this, I will not be grateful. I will curse insomnia and shitty coffee and homework and other people's stupidity and the fact that my cookies never come out flat and six months from now, I will wish for the summer and the lack of snow and stress. Then again, six months ago I couldn't understand why someone couldn't have a fantastic day just because they heard a good song on the radio or read a good story or had a good breakfast. ...Everyday used to be an adventure in my head. Now every day is ordinary and exhausting. If this is growing up, I want no part of it.

Autumn is never as good as I make it in my head.

words

These things that people say, thoughtlessly.
Should not make me want to throw up, still.