I blame it on Carl Jung.
It’s autumn in Ohio and I am at free ends, a ship unmoored, a balloon untethered, a physique loafing on a settee. I’ve packed away my sultry summer time self and as an alternative of unveiling a snappier incarnation, I’m again to my default state. A form of self-deprecating malaise. As all the time at occasions like these, my dream life turns into thousand-hued and more and more surreal whereas my waking life slowly drains of shade.
I’ve been making forays to the library, testing novels and books about witches and magic and desires. I began with Freud, who informed me all my desires are wish-fulfillment and absolutely my most fervent want is for a penis. Cross. Certainly I don’t want to be in a room that abruptly fills with sulfurous grey water, bobbing alongside within the flotsam of damaged lamps and teacups and telephones. I’d fairly not be within the bombed out metropolis, military crawling via bursts of flame and misshapen our bodies towards the shelter of an upended tractor-trailer, all the time waking simply because the faceless man grabs my leg and factors his gun. And what does the underground cave that can be someway my childhood dwelling should do with….wait, by no means thoughts. Return to the womb. Acquired me there, you smug bastard.
Subsequent I learn Jung’s Man and his Symbols. I’ve all the time been taken by the speculation of the Collective Unconscious as a deep ocean of human reminiscence connecting us all. However this new studying fleshed out a lot of my discontent.
I’ve all the time had the nagging sense that I was born within the incorrect time and am every day baffled by the pointlessness of contemporary life. Like I’m trapped on this fucked-out, final gasp of humanity.
Every little thing looks as if a cardboard cutout of one thing that was actual. Studying the Jung comforted me. It soothes me to know the pagan blood of all my forebears nonetheless pulses inside me. That deeper nonetheless, my chilly reptilian mind watches my wriggling human self with a predatory gleam.
My most secret ideas are rife with fable and lore and superstition. It explains why the calendar pages flip and appointments are made and saved, however I’m all the time ready for the ritual. Ready for the epoch.
Autumn is the one season that mirrors this sense inside me. It’s my favourite season and seemingly everybody else’s. My Instagram feed is all angora sweaters slipping from naked shoulders and manicured arms clutching espresso cups-nails painted darkish, darkish, darkish. Everybody loves the chilliness within the air and the soccer video games and even the piles of pumpkins appear to shout that we could also be in a dying world, however we’re nonetheless wealthy sufficient to make use of foodstuffs as ornament.
However what I love about fall is the longing.
If spring is hopefulness and winter melancholy, autumn is wild, wondrous longing. Nostalgia wafts. Twilight creeps. Morning fog encroaches. The cardboard cutouts of witches and ghouls and goblins come alive and do their jagged dance. For the briefest time magic appears potential once more. It seeps into our ingesting water and we drink it like a tonic.
By no means is the divide between my fashionable self and my primal yet one more sharply outlined. A part of me needs to purchase a classic jacket with a mink collar, a part of me needs to put on animal hides and horns, cloven hooves unfurling from the ideas of my little toes, my mouth brilliant with blood. I need to get misplaced in darkish woods, my pockets jingling with trinkets and treasures and enamel. I need to hear the rapping on the underside of the desk and converse with the spirit world. I need to be with my coven bare within the gentle of the complete moon. I need to meet my very own ghost.
As an alternative days move a lot as they all the time do. I work and sleep and fuck and eat. I put on sweaters and drink sizzling tea identical to everybody else. I scribble in my journal and skim my books. I make a playlist of songs in regards to the moon. I watch the leaves fall, the crayon field colours of burnt sienna and harvest gold.
I muse that one other 12 months is ending and I nonetheless haven’t managed to trend myself into something that feels actual.
At evening with head on pillow, nonetheless the longing beats its wings inside my chest. I consider issues I can’t fairly keep in mind and issues I need to overlook. Ultimately, ever so slowly, sleep comes and my fists uncurl and I dream of unusual mists and mossy damaged skyscrapers and clean obsidian-surfaced lakes till lastly, I am a winged creature flying someplace heat for winter.