In August and September, writers often take to The Central Trend to write about their sorrows and sentiments as the new school year begins and fall returns, complete with pumpkin chai lattes and autumnal leaves.
It seems I am no different.
I struggle with originality—distinguishing myself from the crowd. What do I have to offer the world that is new and exciting? It seems like every invention has been made, every verse written to a tone of eloquent perfection, and every territory mapped in an explorer’s notebook.
With the cycle of the seasons and fall’s rebirth, I feel the same as I always do around this time of year: overwhelmed and full of doubt. The eras of one’s life can be intensely bittersweet, as is this one for me. Each event comes with an extra tinge of sadness, knowing that these moments will not repeat themselves next year. The cycle, once seeming so endless, is now ceasing.
It’s in these moments that I think I feel something only I can—a reminiscence of gilded memories to the sound of a song from a favorite film. I can be anywhere, and if I close my eyes, I visualize it all again, the tangible feelings staying omnipresent at the forefront of my mind. All the “lasts” of my life compile to create an evergoing montage playing on a loop, reminding me of all I have lived. In these moments, I feel most myself.
Although nearly no experiences are purely original, I think there’s a sweetness to that fact. Few entirely unique individuals have ever lived, expressing themselves intrinsically through their work in ways no other could have imagined. Later on, we take inspiration from their ideals, weaving history into the now and dissecting our souls to give creations meaning.
That’s what I love most about humanity. We keep trying and failing, learning and growing. Each chance we take will teach us something invaluable, and might even help us gain insight into ourselves.
Now, whenever I think of September, I think of the skylift on Boyne Mountain, watching the world fall below and the red, orange, and yellow ombre of the oak trees. I think of 62 degrees and extra hot chocolate left over from an order at work. I think of my favorite lilac Patagonia sherpa and a brisk chill in the wind, accompanied by slivers of sunrays. Journal entries, apple pie, caramel apples, and rewatches of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone—all aspects of my autumns that reflect who I’ve become.
Even though my ruminations aren’t unprecedented, they are genuine; in the grand scheme of things, that’s all that matters.
