dear november

11.30.14

Dear November, 

Is it gone? A month, no, you, have passed already when the cold is still creeping on my skin. You'll be gone soon. This rain and haze won't. 

There are a lot of things I want to say and a lot of things I feel, but the first one is: thank you. This is my rambling writing that doesn't cease but instead changes speed sporadically like a hot rod when you gun the engine. Maybe it'll fall to pieces and everyone riding will get carsick, but you never told me to stop. 

So much has happened in the past thirty days. I didn't write to you all of them, but that's because I was occupied with crushing anxiety or sleep was yanking on my eyelids or life was making use of my time. Strangers gave me money for music camp and people twisted my wayfaring emotions around their finger; procrastinate, procrastinate, permeating fear and a loud relief. New friends, random hotties, intense gazes, and there you have it: a friend moves. Music grabbed me by the waist for a dance in front of a thousand pairs of eyes and I basked in that crippling fear and simultaneous exhilaration of performing. 

I did not love every second of it. November, you took me and planted poisonous kisses all over my body and now wild thoughts are sprouting from my neck and lips. No, I loved /nearly/ every second of it, because when the heads of weird ideas pop out of my skin, it stings a little until I realize how ingenious it is, how /mine/ it is. I'm finding myself this month. And the next, and the next. November, you made me a month of music and writing and rain and bread conversation and that is why /thank you/ is the first and last thing I have to say to you. 

I'll never get out of here alive, but I take life too seriously before I can even realize it. 

Sincerely, Esther

(stick around. I'll be writing to December soon enough.)