Oh the fall . . . .

Currently Listening to: Michelle Featherstone's Careful

This is gonna hurt, if it ever ends
But somehow you have shattered my defence
This is gonna hurt, if it ever starts
So promise you'll be careful with my heart


Current mood: Reflective / mellow / sentimental



I love the fall. Anyone who has spent more than a few seconds with me recently has probably heard me say it. I love change, and I'm rather sentimental for the most part, and so of all the seasons, fall is the most accurate representation of my inner state. Also, there's usually an abundance of orange.

I love orange.

I don't know why I haven't been able to shake it - though I suspect it has something to do with 17 years of school starting in the fall - but September always makes me think of starting new, starting fresh. I'm by and large far more optimistic in the fall, and it's easier to let stuff roll off my back. I tend to start new things with greater gusto in the fall, and launch into a new frame of mind easier. Summer finds me rather intellectually drab and emotionally impulsive - whatever I feel like doing, I do, regardless . . . whereas the fall finds me a more calculating Greg, no less willing to take risks, but far more likely to plan for a fail should the risk not pan out.

For whatever reason, that's not really the case this year. There's a restlessness that has pervaded my sincerest efforts at comfort that I can't shake, nor do I think I want to. Like I said, I love change, but find myself in something of a routine. Routine is the illusion that feeds our sense of safety, and as much as I love this world and the people in it, it is far from safe - especially for the tenderhearted. Love is a risk, and it's impossible to have a tender heart that breaks for the things that break God's heart without loving.

If there is a point where I begin to risk less and become more conservative in my approach to life, I believe I'm hitting it. I don't ever want to give up on my big dreams, but I think there are some things that require more maturity than I've given them credit for. I want to love big, everyday - and of all the seasons, fall is when I most feel like just giving the world a hug. But . . . after a while, when it doesn't hug back, it rarely seems worth it. Maybe it's time to be a bit more selective with love?

A heart is a precious, fragile thing . . . be careful with yours, and, if anyone ever gives you theirs, be doubly careful. It's a living thing, though, so don't wall it in. A Miss Havisham is a horrible fate.