Autumn brings with it a terrible stirring of longing and need. I can’t put my finger on it. It creates restlessness, but also acceptance. We love autumn. We love the strange new taste in the air. We love the foreign magic washing over us. Pumpkins and coffee abound. Sweaters cover T-shirts and sneakers track mud and leaves.

During these months, I struggle with that “empty inspiration” I’ve spoken of in the past. I have great visions of long tables covered in meats, sweets, and fresh baked bread. Wine lingers in the air and music dances energetically. Friends get together for the final days, and no one speaks of the end. Everyone is welcome, but you get a sense not everyone is safe. There’s something more to these dark wood elves. They’re nothing like the fairies, and you realize there’s likely both good and evil in these gatherings.

That’s why we come back, I suppose. There’s mystery and excitement. It’s in every adventurer’s bones to dance with danger.

I would love to write this story, but every time I sit down the vision fades. It’s my ghost, and maybe it doesn’t want to be shared. It can’t be captured on paper. So year by year I sit in the yard beneath the shifting sun and dream. I dream of places I wish to see.

This has been,


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