I prefer the skies cloudy, in an almost fatigued state, as it consistently fades on, into itself like the Autumn winds are in the midst of collapsing, being jostled by the wintertide in competition for ascendancy. I fixate on the frost’s ability to organize themselves quietly on top of the grass, how a simple step in its direction can dissipate the once prominent beauty of its chaos. I adore the wind and it’s giving simplicity to my lungs. I obsess over the quiet. The quiet that’s welcomed by the uncomfortable cold. Cold mornings I cherish, the walks to my bus stop, now with the irregulated temperatures can cause an almost eerie silence. Now with everything being overtaken by the natural instinct to stay warm. I find tranquility in its aggressive power to insist on contemplation, to promote a moment of ponder, to think of the things we had not been given a chance to recognize. 

The cold brings an almost isolated feeling. A lonely feeling. Though I have never been saddened at the idea of being alone. I do not consider myself withdrawn or unsociable, I get along with people, and I do have friends, however, I can be found to be quite pauciloquent to those of unfamiliarity. I think that's why for the cold, I hold such high admiration. I am noticeably quiet, however, not because I fear for my safety or because I simply have nothing to conclude from what may have been said or any absurd ideation that I do not pay attention, but for the complicated fact of not knowing how it will be perceived once it is said. I do not talk much. In that truth I do not tell jokes, I do not raise my hand in class, I do not do any significant actions that may be seen as unfavorable, and most of all I do not speak when I am not spoken to. This is not ideal, but in spite of this, it is a mindset I have grown accustomed to. I find myself believing if I am not considered likable in the eyes of everyone who will ever meet me, What else do I have to offer? This taunting, never-ending fault finding voice proves an unwelcome frequency in circumstances in which I find myself talking to someone I have never met. I repeatedly recognize a silence in the conversation, a silence I could fill with all my mind has to offer. The organization of my thoughts, opinions, and stories, are, however, put away, dust-covered, never displayed in any sort of conversational exchange, purposed only entirely to not cause a shift in reaction. 

A furred eyebrow, or an ever so slight curl of your lip, in pure honesty, mine as well be the monster under my bed. I have continuously feared I have welcomed and accepted the anxiety-induced fabrication of these minuscule insecurities, or maybe I have simply just over-thought my own actions, my very existence. Nonetheless I am just a “quiet kid” who has now been given the chance to truly think of what they have never completely recognized.  Anyway, I must go now, it is getting cold and my bus has just arrived.