Everything dies in November

 I don’t want to write about optimism dying. Decency dying. Faith in fellow man dying. I really don’t. I don’t want to write about stupidity winning, and common sense dying.

I don’t want to dissect the levels of stupidity – the selfish stupidity that is so stupid they can’t even see that they fucked themselves, the ones they decided to put first. Not yet at least. Or the fuck the facts stupidity. Or the next morning, shit we did that stupidity. I don’t want to write about any of it.

I don’t want to write about connections and relationships being poisoned, possibly dying. I don’t want to describe the shrinking of social circles, illustrate the increasing isolation.

I don’t want to even consider out loud all of the things that are on death row. Of course I can’t stop thinking about my girls, your girls. But I don’t want to write about what we just did. And I don’t want to be part of we. I don’t want to look at someone and consider if they’re an immigrant, if they’re legal, if they’re scared. Pretty sure they are. Don’t want to even attempt to chronicle what they must be experiencing already.

Both my parents died young in the month of November. My wife’s mother too. Three out of four in November. Can be a shitty month. I’ve tried to write about that in parts. Probably should again.

I’m sure there are libraries full of famous poems and novels on the deep symbolism of dying leaves, flowers, and warmth in November. They’re not wrong, but you definitely don’t want me to write about that too. My favorite pro football team’s season died this November, too. Actually, been a while since they did that. Lately it’s been an annual January funeral. But not this year – everything dies in November this year. And I don’t want to write about it.