Cold Autumn Rain

That spring of our own that began so April-hearted went rapidly to an early pre-winter leaving me dispossessed, meandering late night boulevards and taking stock of my dejection.

Following half a month of suffering despondency, I summarized what survived from Maeve and I and put them in a case all our valuable nothings—a surge of recollections to ridicule me in dead hours when wishes go to watches.

Obviously, I persevered through the torment of things stated, or implied—all the wrongdoings and oversights that left me forlorn.

"You must proceed onward, James," Harry grinned, figuring his happy state of mind may help mine.

"That is a fine thought of yours. You're such a self assured person, Harry. What's more, you presumably trust a Golden Age is directly before us."

"Why not? That is the thing that the antiquated Greeks accepted," he winked guilefully.

"Gracious sure," I answer, "yet I've visited their remains and saw the sculptures of their dead divine beings."

"Goodness, hey there James—help up. It's difficult to compose sentiments when you're in a blue funk."

"You're correct—you're correct. You're in every case right, Harry. Perfectly fine. I'll take my upbeat pills and everything will be blushing."

Harry's my distributer with a personal stake in my temperaments—but at the same time is an old buddy and authentically worried about my prosperity.

"You realize I need what's best for you, James."

He's correct, I realize he has good intentions. I applaud him on the shoulder. "Alright, old buddy—I'll attempt—I'll truly attempt."

I think he trusted me. He left with a merry farewell, yet at that point, that is Harry—continually scanning for a brilliant covering, metaphorical or something else.

There was nothing to do except for lounge around the apartment suite for some time gazing out at the blustery horizon.

Toronto can be flawless, however in downpour, it has an agonizing nearness that can pound you with lack of concern.

I contemplated I could remain here decaying, quieted in the doldrums of melancholy, or take a drive, get out in the nation and lose myself in October's reddish brown profundities.

Move or kick the bucket, I considered.

The decision was mine and I made it. I picked the nation and the watercolor obscure of downpour and fall leaves.

Inside the hour, I was some place in the Caledon Hills with a dark downpour quieting the reds and yellows of leaves, and turning the evening grave.

I detected an interesting sign publicizing a nation motel and turned down a restricted path. I was looking for whatever may divert me, however was primarily searching for a difference in scene.

The hotel was close to a little stream and was clearly a changed over plant. It looked curious and rural—simply the sort of redirection I needed—something strange, yet peaceful.

It helped me to remember a line from As You Like It: "I like this spot and could enthusiastically burn through my time in it." That was my inclination as I pulled up to a space close to the entryway.

An unpropitious applaud of thunder welcomed me, and there was an unexpected, brutal storm. I scarcely had the opportunity to leave the vehicle and run for the front entryway.

Inside, the air was warm and serene. Quieted music was playing out of sight. I could see a tremendous fieldstone chimney and windows that managed an amazing perspective on the harvest time woods.

I had missed the excellence of pre-winter yet now felt my pizzazz stiring as I gazed through the downpour streaked window at a bright vista of turning leaves.

Something revealed to me I had arrived at a curve in the street—a defining moment.

A sentimental preparation mixed inside me—a presentiment maybe of something I needed or required—a glint of expectation in the agony.

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