[The atmosphere] is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised
and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.
— Walt Whitman (Song of Myself)
The leaves on the tree outside my window are turning yellow, one by one. Frost has crept in during the night. Darkness has returned, bringing back familiar constellations like old friends. A pale ghost of an aurora is dancing in front of the stars, and the yellow reflection of the moon is smeared across the lake. The dark silhouette of the mountains frames the brightening sky. A cloud of mist is hanging just above the surface of the lake, and distant peaks are set ablaze before the sun crawls over the horizon.
The river’s water in the morning is icy cold. My heart beats wildly, my lungs draw greedy breaths, every hair on my body stands on end. My entire being is shivering, in joy and awe. This closeness of being, this triumph of letting myself out into the world, and the world into me. To encompass and to be encompassed. A truth that suffers too often to be forgotten screams itself into existence with my voice:
I AM ALIVE!
Love and autumn,
Winterdragon
