the eleventh month.

the paradox of november is the best metaphor i find for my own self. right before christmas. right before the new year. 

the right amount of slow. the right amount of cold.

november is my favourite month. usually because by november, all the knots tied in the year i've untied. 

and no new knots have been tied yet. i know nothing of the next year, yet i am figuring out the font my story will now be written in. 

i know how it goes. i just need to know which font. i'm already used to the Times font here. 

***

the november of 2021.

big eyes. out of proportion hair. and a constant need to tell everybody and anybody who will listen i'm a grown up. don't treat me like a kid now. not now. 

sitting at a coffee shop, dolled up in a way that doesn't suit her. but then again i'm grown up i'm grown up.

the boy claims to like her. in a very boyish way. she doesn't feel fulfilled. still, she pays for the coffee.

the other day he made a joke about this, adding that we would've looked good together. 

i disagree. he never did fulfill me.

chokers don't look good on her. but then again i'm a grown up DAMNIT.

blurry. saturated. black. 

those are the colours of november this year.

***

the november of 2022.

healing. but doesn't really want to. growing. but doesn't really want to.

knows. but doesn't really want to.

does it anyway.

what's the worst that could happen

tries out pink because that's the last time she could really breathe.

feels sad that she's outgrown it.

now people think oh

she's so grown up.

she doesn't want to be grown up. she just wanted to be taken seriously.

too much pink. too much softness. now everyone wants to claw at the dessert. 

small black wolf boy. 

big white husky boy.

and other dogs left unnamed.

the only time anybody takes her seriously is when she's all grown up.

all grown up at 15.

***

the november of 2023.

yellow. green. she really wanted those to be her favourite colours. tried for a good two years with the yellow and green thing. she however has outgrown yellow to be that gullible. she isn't as smart to be green.

still

this year she will try to be yellow and green.

unkempt hair. overnight mascara. pushing limits. pushing boundaries. boundaries wrecked. 

the limit does not exist !

this year will be yellow ! she writes it in the notebook. in her palm. on the walls.

it will be yellow.

she wills herself to fight for yellow. i don't get it, she's never liked yellow.

yellow was never her colour. she cares about the little things too much.

yellow is for all the people who don't.

yellow yellow dirty fellow sitting on a buffalo.

haha, that's not a thing !

it is now !

everything will be yell-

nothing was yellow.

like a canary bird,

yellow.green. yellow. red. yellow. black. yellow ? red. black. red. black. red.

canary dead

those are the colours of november this year.

***

the november of 2024.

quiet. brown. blue. cream. grey.

the sleepy colours. the boring colours. i don't care anymore. 

back where we started. with little worry. little pressure to be something, someone.

back with the soft crying to my grandparents.

back to untying all the knots i made in january. 

back to letting my hair grow a little. short in the front, gradual flow down my shoulders.

back to finding god seep through the clouds. the pictures in the neighbourhood gallery. the trickle of late night light throwing in through the bathroom window.

back to the overprotective next door best friend who's stayed since the very first november.

back to the cat i met last november last ! (she's grown up)

back to my friends in the polaroid picture. in the computer.

back to slow. steady breaths.

and there it is

you have such beautiful eyes

i know i do. it's one of my most favourite things about myself.

i'm sorry, i think i really only like stories i write myself.

i think that's more comfort than narcissism.

i think i'll swallow the key that opens my gates.

everyone can rot outside.

*** 

                                                Jean Baptiste Greuze - Broken Eggs (1756)

(A mother scolding a young man for having overturned a basket of eggs that her servant brought from the market. A child attempts to repair a broken egg.)