A Man Travels Through September.

A Man Travels Through September.
Lee.

September is my time of year. Not that I particularly love or loathe it, it’s just me. It’s neither autumn nor winter, hot nor cold, never outstanding but neither plain. It just is.
It’s being the middle child. On the fringe and coattails of the eldest, whilst overlooked for the need of the newborn. At the back and out of focus on the periphery of those family photos, or the invite lost in the post. September is like that. September is on the spectrum. It’s schizo climes wrap-up or disrobe the traveller, whilst it’s manic breeze rifles through the markets and high streets, and it’s melancholic nights can drop rocks in the hearts of optimistic folk. September is my Christmas, my Easter, my Halloween, my birthday, my je ne regrette rien, my dolce vita, my twilight and my dawn. Everything and nothing happens in September, for September is the forgotten child.