I like to talk about love (duh), I like to experience it in connections with strangers or intimate exchanges between my closest friends or in the serene moments of absolute vulnerability in my family's presence, but I don't want to be in love (I can hear your arguments already, "Oh, Natalie, yes you do. You just need to find the right one"). It's not that I never want to be in love and I'm certainly not waiting for the imaginary divine-chosen "one." Rather, I'm confidently content with the single song I'm singing and I'm undecided on the melody I'd like to accompany it. There is, though, something about Fall that rumbles every romantic bone in my body. The other night, I suggested to a friend that Fall is innately romantic. His response catalyzed renderings of the mind, of the whimsical spirit that dictates my life.
When you think of what Fall represents, I think you're probably right...
Of course.
Fall begs us to put on an oversized sweater and drink coffee not only for caffeine, but also for the addition of warmth. After a summer of consistent 100 plus degree days, Fall speaks new life into sidewalks and Sunday walks. We wear hoodies and pack blankets to the final baseball games and fellowship around our big screen TVs rooting for god-like men running a diamond shape ball to a small section of grass. Fall is colorful and apple-endorsed. Fall fills us with Octoberfests and pumpkin bread and squash soup. Fall smells good. Fall's breeze swipes my hair from my eyes and tucks it softly behind my ear.
Fall is my melodious lover that simply needs a kiss from his true love to stop the stupor he's fallen into. (Obviously, I'm wishfully thinking.....)
Fall asks I draw close to people, cuddle, in flannel and scarves, with a good book, learn something. Fall is the North Star for romantics.
Fall is lovely.
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