Autumn is insidious.
The first blowing of the cool breeze of autumn is despair in the guise of relief from the heat.
It beacons the end of summer, the end of opportunity, and the end of progress. It whispers, "It's too late now."
Autumn is the time for decay. Leaves fall, fields turn brown, and insects hobble along, as if not really even here, just biding their time until the moment they finally accept their death and stop pretending.
Where there was the hope of spring, and the warmth of summer, there is now a cold foreboding. It is not the oppressive master that is Winter, but the servant of Winter sent forth to condition us. It meters out punishment and loneliness in careful quantities, getting us ready for the things to come, things that are of the way of Winter.
Flowers of autumn bloom, and leaves display bright colors, but they are only the last display of denial for a world doomed. The flowers and leaves seem to say, look, we are still here! The time for pleasant things is not yet over! But before they even finish their exclamation the leaves are already hitting the ground, the flowers fray and wilt, sickly brown invading the blossoms from the outside in, until consumed.
The people rebel against the coming Winter and its servant Autumn by holding festivals. "Look what we have harvested. Joyous times!" But this is only a thinly veiled disguise for gathering what is there before it rots, and storing it away against death. We have Autumn parties where we put on costumes and talk about monsters, death, and spirits from other realms. We say this is for fun, but it is really our way of gradually accepting our fate and what's to come.
Autumn is when you wake up in the morning, step outside, and feel the cool breeze on your face, and tell yourself that you are happy not to have the stifling heat that came with summer. But you can't help but feel deep down the warning that Autumn is here to give us. You walk back inside, keenly aware of the despair that chills the soul, and you lie to yourself.
