self-destructive empathy ; setosolace

1

Autumn was never my favorite type of season.

Living in the East Coast of America meant I was facing all four seasons—something that I was never introduced to in Australia. Maybe it was because I didn't like the sudden eerie atmosphere, or possibly the skies growing gray and gloomy. Maybe I just didn't like the bareness of the trees, or the flourishing vegetation abruptly gone to a wasteland. Maybe I just didn't like the feeling of death sauntering behind me as the days lingered shorter.

Because everything about Autumn had screamed a sort of "death." It felt like only a transitional period from summer to winter; a filler that had no importance. It was like a roaring candle flame on the beach at high noon. Pointless.

To contradict, I'm educated on seasons. I know why things happen in nature. Autumn is important because it's a transitioning period to embrace the winter. Everything and everybody is saying goodbye to that summer haze and a sorrowful hello to the winter chill—whether it would be animals, plants, or humans. It would be strange for one morning to be scolding hot outside, then the next to reach below freezing.

Of course, global warming throws that all away. Let's fuck up the whole entire planet, shall we?

Getting back to the point, nothing really stops me from hating the season of Autumn. No one can really dictate my decisions because that's just human nature. It gives us power to destroy or power to create.

Which brings me to now. My back is killing me as I'm arched over my current painting: the deathly Autumn scenery. It's painfully chilly and my teeth are clattering. I'm pretty sure my hands have gotten frostbite, despite the fact I'm wearing these stupid woolen gray gloves that smudge the paint every once and a while. Because I'm too stubborn to Google a reference, I'm here at the park painting the deathly scenery. Of course, that meant I had to finish the painting in one sitting since scenery can change overnight.

It's another one of my commissions, and since my half of rent is due soon, I can't afford to not make the painting. My client wanted Autumn scenery; so Autumn scenery they receive. My paintings are pretty expensive, usually 20 - 50 bucks a piece (depending on the size). People frequently request some sort of art from me, so I'm always busy just painting. I mean, it's good for a living, but free time is a non-existent concept for me. As long as I can afford to have a roof over my head and food on the table, I'm completely fine.

So, I finished up the final details and set the painting besides me on the park bench. I backed up, seeing if it was adequate enough to its actual counterpart. The brown tinted leaves on the ground looked a bit messy, but that's what made it displaced in the first place. There were a plethora of oak trees in the piece, which made it look a bit crowded. That gave me a sense of displeasure. The cloudy sky was a mixture of dark grays and blues—again setting the familiar tone of death. The grass was a mixture of emerald and light brown. I guess it was alright—not like I had the patience to repaint it to my liking anyway.

I packed my paints back into my book bag and swung it over my shoulder. Grabbing the painting by its wooden back, I made sure not to smudge it as I proceeded to lift it off the bench. I don't know how long I stayed put out here, but it definitely was over three hours. I wanted to finish two smaller commissions when I got home, so I made sure to hasten my pace out of the park. My apartment complex was only about two blocks away.

The streets weren't busy as usual with only a car or two zooming past me. I was the only one seeming to be outside today. Or maybe there were people at the park earlier and I was just too drawn into my painting to notice them. Whatever the case may be, it doesn't matter now. I'm on my way home to be alone anyway, with little to no human interaction. Good on my part.