Nothing happens in October. It's a quiet month.
In fact, if a year were to be compared to the unfolding of a day, I'll bet October would be the sleepy twilight time, when nature is preparing to succumb to unconsciousness and everything gleams in the soft setting sun. In October, the cherry trees flare up with so much gold that their tired branches simply can't hold it all up. One by one, the little nugget leaves slowly slip off, then soon enough, there's nothing left. The light fades, the year tucks itself into bed, the bare branches look like bones under the moonlight, bones that have been made into some twisted sort of mobile to hang above the year's bed, bones that are menacing, but not menacing enough to tug the year out of its dreams.
One evening in the middle of this, a flower vendor sat on a crate by the street, contemplating this very process as he dragged a toe back and forth in the leaf rubble. He saw it every year, watched the world fall asleep from inside his tiny kingdom, which was inhabited by only him and his cart blooming with freesias, anemones, and daffodils. For him, it was a peaceful process. Quiet, soft, easy. All he heard of it all passing by was the tinny echo of his favorite Velvet Underground track filtering through old headphones ( Teenage Mary said to Uncle Dave, I sold my soul, must be saved ) and just beyond that, a soft rain that was slowing business enough that just maybe, he'd be able to go home in time for the 8 o'clock news.
Little did he know, there was one thing that would break the mold of the season that evening. Or, rather, one person who would come along and shatter the mold entirely, until there was nothing left.
I wish, looking back, that I could warn that poor man about Clarke Griffin. I don't know what I'd say exactly, or what I could say. How do you prepare someone for that kind of person? It's not like she meant any harm. She was just a girl who was bearing too much. A girl whose burden was so big that she couldn't fit it in her hands, not even on her shoulders, not even if she wrapped around and around and around her torso and gave up her whole body to trying to hold it off the ground. I don't know how you can adequately prepare for that kind of person, really. Clarke meant nothing against the natural progression of the seasons but just so happened to have an agenda. Once that caught on, everything else just kind of went up in flames, including the freesias, the anemones, and the daffodils.
Maybe it was best that I couldn't have prepared him. Perhaps it's a good thing that he had those last few minutes with his flowers, and his Velvet Underground CD.
Gonna take a walk down to Union Square
You never know who you're gonna find there.
You gotta run, run, run, run
Take a drag or two
Run, run, run, run, run.
I guess I'll never know. Maybe you'll be able to provide an answer.
(If you don't, or can't, I understand.)
[Note: The musical aesthetic for this prologue is brought to us by the kind folks at Velvet Underground, which you can check out at watch?v=CGqwy_DQnS4 if you like a lil' of the old school tunes to go with your gay fanfiction. Thanks for reading!]
