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What is November?

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November is bursts of cold winds, the sun’s rays, with flecks of rain pieced in between. November is walking on crushed leaves making my way to class only to stare at the greying clouds at the window. November is the threat of midterms, the threat of failing, the threat of retaking the class; November is when you get A’s on your midterms dispelling the fear of failure. 

There is infinite creating, infinite imagination. In my waking hours, I am listening, doing, writing, creating. From my imagination, my novel appears with jagged ends and missing words onto my laptop. From my imagination, I finish Mockingjay and articles and blog posts wondering what I could write on my own blog about so I write about November. November when my little brother turns 15 and our parents aren’t there to see it. November when I wrack my brain for answers I cannot attain during my precalc course but dive readily into my anthropology text books and read about cultures I didn’t know of. November is the delight of holiday drinks at Starbucks, visiting home to sip a peppermint mocha and eat toffee with my significant other before I board the Amtrak train back to university and my room that smells of Gain, Febreeze, and loneliness.

When I sleep, my brain creates not words but pictures and animations from creatures to people to faces I don’t remember even meeting. They kiss me in my sleep. Put their hands on mine and beg me to follow them into their world but my body is tethered here and they leave. In the morning I don’t remember, rather, I make my way to work to drink not coffee anymore but a caramel cappuccino that leaves an espresso aftertaste I wash down with water from a wine glass.

This is November.  



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