Fall is the season for weakness

Autumn is where the strong and weak are distinguished from afar. I walk past others and we look dressed for different climates – them in their cute mini-dresses that even I have not worn in summertime, in shorts and crop top and bare beautiful skin, and I with only my face and hands peeking through the layers of sleeves and fleece that has become my second, third, fourth skin. I am weak and would have been weeded out by natural selection.

It is also obvious, in how the rest of the world ambles along the way tourists walk, aimlessly, since all directions lead the same way – lost. I, meanwhile, scuttle along like a shivering squirrel from place to place. Whatever it takes to get warm. The fastest and therefore only acceptable way to travel.

Fall is sudden and therefore this difference is shocking. The trees are bald two days after it starts turning gold, terribly impatient models posing for painting, and each tree changes colour independently like runners breaking through the finishing line. It is suddenly cold, and the pockets of fall is shocking where my sight arrives on. The leaves rustle, dry as a cough, mocking me for my weakness.