The sun ghosted me again.
Typical.
It is November in mid-Norway β a month that cannot commit to a personality (much like everyone I have ever dated). One minute she is soft-focus nostalgia, the next she is throwing sleet like insults.
Yesterday flirted with warmth, threw me a little golden hour. Today? She is grey, cold, and muttering about how love is dead. Basically Morrissey with better cheekbones.
They say winterβs coming, but she is already here β smoking by the doorway, ash in her lipstick, frost in her hair. She is the friend who ruins brunch and still expects a hug (and will show up early, leave her cigarette in your coffee, and call it βcharacter development.β)
And me? I am not even pretending to rise above it. I pull on my gravity-defying boots, overdraw my lips like a declaration of war, and march to the store like the drizzleβs my backup dancer. If the world insists on being miserable, I am at least going to look spectacular about it.
I dislike November, but I have to tolerate her like everyone else. She is, regrettably, my birth month.
November: over-dyed hair meets black wool coat. Glitter meets gloom. The skyβs crying, but she is skipping β dramatically, in platform boots that could double as weapons.
It is bratty existentialism β weather report meets emotional breakdown, moody, feral, and self-aware enough to laugh at itself.
