The browns of Autumn are always outshined by other vivid hues. Scarlets, oranges, yellows, and violets with a prettier tune. Burnt auburn left to wither, unappreciated until the greens of spring return. Some things die and we marvel at them, other’s pass away with a passing glance. Auburn left to fill the space until there’s something worth staring at. Value assigned, Drab Vs. Chiché, yet the trees expire the same, slumber over their leaves.
“I don’t wanna talk about death, I don’t want to focus on the Macabre.”
“Pearly gates and golden streets, I’m building my treasures up in Heaven. Rust and decay will never touch me.”
“Live in the moment, life flits around like a canary, all yellow and exuberant. Death is still, lazy; don’t waste away pondering such things.”
I think it’s fear of death that drives faith. I’ll do anything to feel like I’ll live forever. I’ll tithe my last cent, grind my teeth to dust just to keep moving.
“Oh busy, busy bee, walking to and fro. What if we close our eyes? What if we don’t wake up?”
What if we don’t wake up? I tried to cling to hope, tried to swallow fear, hoping that there’s an afterlife with every tear. So many stories, so much lore, always ending in some deity conquering death through resurrection or reincarnation. I used to pray because I was afraid of what there might be after. Content with worshipping a god I didn’t fully believe in. I used to cry into my mother’s arms, pleading with her to save me from rot and decay. 3 years old is early to worry about death. So I put my faith in a story, written by someone many years ago, just like I used to put my faith in Grover when he told me “There’s a Monster at the End of this Book”.
There’s a monster at the end of every book, and it’s weird to think that Sesame Street taught me just as much about humanity and death as Christ or Buddha did. I used to believe that monster was death, that that monster was sin, but the monster is humanity, and death is Van Helsing, coming to put a stake in our hearts as we crumble to ash. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust”, made of the earth, buried there too.
I think the Greeks worshiped so many to distract themselves, a nation constantly at war in their adolescence. Aphrodite, Eros, Apollo, Athena, making any concept transcend it’s form. I think the Christians and the Jews wanted the same distraction, but focused it into one super-being. No respect for death, no dignity in decay.
Samhain is around the bend, and winter there after. They’d slaughter their cattle, harvest their grains, and offer up a bit to death to ensure they made it through the frigid, white doom. We’ll wear masks to hide from malignant spirits, going from door to door, begging for treats. Feasting for the solstice, avoiding any tomb.
Scarlets, oranges, yellows, and violets wither just as Auburn does. Auburn has the hardest task of all: ensuring all the other hues burn out bright, while she just burns out.
I’m not entirely sure what I’m trying to get at, other than death is an inevitability. We won’t escape. Maybe I just don’t want to be afraid anymore? Maybe I’m tired of putting my faith in possibilities and probabilities? Maybe I want to stop alloting life’s value to extraplanar beings and just let life’s value stand on it’s own? I don’t want the harvest to come to anyone or anything but mine own. I want to bask and revel in the responsibility for the things that I have sown.
Claude Monet’s color palate
Bahamut of the Platinum Cadre
The Chariot’s “Your”
Grover of “Sesame Street”‘s, “There’s a Monster at the End of this Book”
The Gaelic festival of Samhain
The autumn foliage