Autumnal Reflections
Katherine Knutsen
Soaking in the essence of a cold, clear night in Brooklyn. I
swear, I’ll never tire of moments such as this one: not a soul or sound
on the street except the whistling of the wind and the rhythmic tap of
my feet, barely aware of the pavement, soul drawn from my very core
to mingle with the sugar-plum skies, transported away from nagging
thoughts of mundane woes. Soothed by the warm glow emanating from
tall silver streetlamps…comforting, familiar beacons since my
childhood, bright and reliable, illuminating my path, giving voice to
the little tessellating fears wallpapering my skull. I cannot deny them
in the soft golden night. Twitching hand at my side, seeking tangible
solutions, no doubt, crawls into my coat pocket, grasping at minute
threads as though they might unravel, like silken chromatin, bearing a
cornucopia of great social sagacity in their coils. The crisp air bears the
faintest aroma of cinnamon, suddenly, I am struck with olfactory déjà
vu, inescapable, mind flooded with bittersweet memoria. Faces, places,
and tiny pockets of pleasure and pain.
I shredded my morals during my uncouth youth, let my body
and mind conform to outsiders’ truths, swinging into depths I never
could have foreseen. The second coming of Self has been arduous, at
best, frightening, at worst…quiet, sacred seasons of healing spent
digging my fingernails into the unforgiving walls and crawling
unassisted out of the abyss that is depression.
My intrinsic love for learning has returned, with gusto,
undeterred, I no longer feel compelled to crouch under a bushel basket,
yearning for light. With the return of my wits, there is greater
recognition of my personal fortitude. My worth as a young, queer
woman who values curiosity, kindness and loyalty above all, an
informed anti-speciesist, who respects the sanctity of all life, a
steadfast friend with no shortage of love to give. I refuse to deny myself
any amount of joy, ever again, because goddamn, I deserve every
ounce. Furthermore, anything that saps this electric optimism cannot
remain with me. To hell with oblivion, I am finally free, truly alive.
Cold fall night, my unexpected muse.
Montage, May 2017 22