Cyclical

Good Morning/Afternoon/Evening/Night(whichever one it is in your part of the world),

Hi! I'm Kate and I'm here to leave a quick review!!

First Impression

AHh this was quite a cute little piece and at the same time also something a little heartbreaking. Its got some powerful emotions running through it, visualizing this cycle of life almost through a very real cycle that really lends an extraordinary power to it. I am generally someone who finds things passing through time quite emotional so this might be just me but it hits especially hard here.

Anyway let's get right to: Kate's Line by Line Reactions;

I wonder if birds are ever scared they will never fly back north. I wonder if they worry that their home is gone, their beauty leaving with it. I wonder if they even have awareness of their cyclical ways. I wonder if it matters in the long run; if leaving hurts them all the same, does the knowledge of their future return make a difference? I fear my cycle will end in the wrong place. I fear it will end anywhere but early fall.

At the beginning of fall, I’m free and unrestricted. In every leaf I see my inspiration revealed, as the forever present reds and oranges come to light. In every tree transforming at its own sporadic pace, I find joy in spontaneity and surprise. I create fervently, like it's my life's work to bring as much beauty to the world as the millions of falling leaves. I let myself fail, knowing that when I fall, I’m simply nourishing the landscape of my soul, like a leaf breaking down in soil. Every gust of just barely cold wind which hits me brings me life. In early fall, I am beauty, I am creation, and I am alive.

Yet, as November comes close and the leaves, once bright, begin to dim, the panic sets in. As the winds move from wakening to bitter, I start to struggle. As the world fades to gray-hued skies, I begin to flee, like someone running backwards on an ever accelerating treadmill. I begin to dig my nails into the hands of the clock and pull desperately to keep it from pushing me along. I always pull, run and beg, yet it ends the same.

It ends in a buried coldness, as if I’m one with the frozen ground and its stagnancy. It always ends with what can only be described as death. That is, death of creation, death of beauty and death of me. It ends in months of numbness, and what is numbness if not death of feeling? It ends in flying south for winter.

Then starts the ever moving tempo of spring. It starts with a short tapping in my toes, which is replaced quickly by the usual numbness. Then it goes again, tapping fast and then slowing, bringing heat and then dropping me back into the ice. It brings hope, only to rip it away. It lights the fire of creation just long enough for me to miss the feeling of its rapid blaze. It makes me almost miss the numbness, as at least there, I couldn’t feel the pain.

It settles out eventually, and the numbness fades. I thaw as flowers and grasses push through the ground and to the surface. It is beautiful, undeniably so, but the bitterness of my wakening holds strong, and before it can fade with the cold, there's another method of suffocation, in the form of heat.

It’s unlike the cold, which buried me under its weight without purpose or connection. The heat pushes, like an ever-following pressure which refuses to give up. It demands to be heard as it whispers for me to do the very thing I enjoy. It tells me to create, to do, to work, to make. It’s funny how I might have been able to do just that, if only the breath in my ear and the feeling of being squished into my skin would cease. Summer is too much. Summer is suffocating. Summer is an opportunity crushed by demands.

Summer is… over. It always ends. I remember now. The hurt, the numbness… it does end. Fall does come again. Beauty, creation and living, they always come again, as does pain and death. I suppose I am a cycle of them all. I suppose we are each a cycle of them all.

Hi Emily!
I love how you use the seasons to describe the changing and spontaneous nature of life. The overall mood of this piece is nostalgic and bittersweet. It’s about how happiness and struggle, they come one after the other in a cycle that doesn’t end. The descriptions of nature here are beautiful and vivid.
There were a few things in the story which I think could be improved. First of all, in the fourth paragraph, you describe death. I think it would be better if the mention of death was done just before the last paragraph because the cycle ends with death doesn’t it? Secondly, I love the opening paragraph but that part is about birds and the rest of it is about the seasons. Maybe you could mention the birds a bit more later in the story. For example, you could mention the birds coming back home in the seventh paragraph. You could explain their noise and that noise could be related to the suffocation from the overwhelming demands for creation. Although it works the way it already is too
My favourite part is the second last paragraph where you describe how too much of a good thing becomes a bad thing. Specially these lines, “Summer is too much. Summer is suffocating. Summer is an opportunity crushed by demands” Is this inspired by the hot melting summer that’s going on right now?
I also love this bit, “ I begin to dig my nails into the hands of the clock and pull desperately to keep it from pushing me along.” This is very vivid and relatable.
That’s all I have to say. This was a really gorgeous story.
Byeee

Hey Emily! Ellie here to review your lovely lyrical short story. I found this to be very quick, but packed with lots of emotion. Let's get right into the review!

I wonder if birds are ever scared they will never fly back north. I wonder if they worry that their home is gone, their beauty leaving with it.

In every leaf I see my inspiration revealed, as the forever present reds and oranges come to light. In every tree transforming at its own sporadic pace, I find joy in spontaneity and surprise. I create fervently, like it's my life's work to bring as much beauty to the world as the millions of falling leaves. I let myself fail, knowing that when I fall, I’m simply nourishing the landscape of my soul, like a leaf breaking down in soil. Every gust of just barely cold wind which hits me brings me life. In early fall, I am beauty, I am creation, and I am alive.

I begin to dig my nails into the hands of the clock and pull desperately to keep it from pushing me along. I always pull, run and beg, yet it ends the same.

It ends in a buried coldness, as if I’m one with the frozen ground and its stagnancy. It always ends with what can only be described as death. That is, death of creation, death of beauty and death of me. It ends in months of numbness, and what is numbness if not death of feeling? It ends in flying south for winter.