September Blues


(noun) A word with Ancient Greek origins, psithurism is defined as the rustling whispers of the trees in a windy day, or the melodic swooshes from the leaves on the ground. 

  • etymology: psithuros = whispering 


2:19 A.M

i. I keep running into you,

In the middle of your favorite song,

And in the tattered notes, I find in old books.

It feels like we’ve lived so many lives together.


ii. In the backyard of my house,

Beneath the pile of fallen leaves,

We buried our love alive under an unnamed gravestone.

-The Late Night Novelist

Labyrinth of Gloom

When I was younger, I used to believe in possibilities and happy places. I wanted to grow up faster to experience life all at once. And then suddenly, I grew up and I lost faith in things like magic. I’ve felt numb on days – this general lack of emotion was completely alien to me – I couldn’t even cry when I felt like dying – when I lost loved ones to death or to life – I just stood there, feeling nothing, watching as life spun around me like a whirlpool in slow motion.

But there are days, when I step outside and I’m warm in the sun and there are nights, when I sneak off to the roof and watch the stars shine while listening to Chet Baker, and for a brief moment, I feel like I’m back to my self again – the one I seem to have wandered away from.

Dark days are unavoidable but I know I’ll come back home to myself, even if it’s for just a little while – I will.

-The Late Night Novelist

Uncertainty and Authenticity

I am learning to welcome uncertainty and confusion. I am slowly learning to accept that emotional ups and downs are a price to pay for simply being alive. My face rests in sadness some days, but my happiness is obvious and loud. I’m frightened by the thought of living an inauthentic life but I wonder if I’ve been doing exactly that, unconsciously. I want to accept all parts of myself and not have experiences based on inaccurate beliefs. That would make my experiences inauthentic and my life would be nothing but a sham.

There is a poem by Rumi called ‘The Guest House’ in which he so eloquently gives the notion that every feeling and emotion one has is like a guest. Unexpected visitors do show up and stay for a while. The idea is to welcome them and learn what they may have to teach you; they may just lead you somewhere you really needed to get to.

-the late night novelist