It is always late September in my room

The seasons keep changing outside,
but in my room, it is always late September.
A strange, stretch of time: neither summer nor yet winter.
Just a long inhale that never gets to be exhaled.

There’s only one portal to the outside world: a tiny window.
It lets in slivers of light, moments of wind,

just enough to remind me that the world is still alive.

Just enough to keep me that it moves on with or without me.

What about the door, you might ask?
The door is not for me to use.
It’s too much of an opening. Too much air, too many possibilities.
Too much exposure.

If I opened it,
the fragile insect that’s been growing inside me for some time,
that secret, that feeble trembling being,
might not survive.

This insect is strange.
It keeps me sane and drives me mad at the same time.
I don’t know if it’s my conscience, or my soul.
But I do know this,
it throws a new tantrum every day.

And oddly, each tantrum gives me a reason to live
just one more day.

It thrives in the dampness of autumn,

feeds on the quiet, the grey light,
the smell of decaying piles of paper
and the hush between chaos of my thoughts.

Somehow, this melancholy is its nourishment.
Without it, I think it would wither and surrender to nothingness.

And when someone from the outside world
tries to enter my room,
even with kindness, even gently,

the insect inside me panics.

My conscience declares war.

Not because it hates,
but because it fears:
the brightness will be too much,
the air too sharp,
the presence too loud.

The insect isn’t ready.
Maybe it never will be.
So, I stay behind the tiny window,
watching the seasons change,
as September stretches on forever.