winter

It’s Autumn in Beijing.
The winds are strong and people are looking both ways to cross the street.
Lately I’m feeling the color of the trees hanging from the trees.
The natural beauty of slow death and dieing. Hanging from everywhere else and talking about gravity.
I’m having one of those days where nothing helps me but a good run.
If I had the time, I’d put on the running shoes I don’t have, wear my non-famous MP3 player and some light clothes, and run around the neighborhood and far far away.
I’d run far away and to forever and back.
Faster and farther than the winds of Beijing.
The winds that taste gritty and sting my eyes.
The winds that blow in tight, bright faces at the many campuses near me.
The winds that blow right through me; that take me nowhere quickly but make me invisible.
It’s autumn in Beijing and I’ve not the exuberance nor ambition of a leaf. A dieing leaf.