It's unseasonably warm in New York.

I know now that I have no idea where summer went. In fact, as I walk down the streets of Manhattan, leaves turning yellow and falling making the ground slippery in the rain beneath my feet, I wonder where the last year of my life has gone to.

I always hate people who lament the passing of time as though they weren’t awake for it, as though they’d gone out of town or fell into a coma and can’t at all be held responsible for what’s happened while they weren’t paying attention. Where has the time gone?! they plead to each other. Its been flying! Time just packing its bags and settling in first class on a trip far away while their backs were turned.

But this time, (I hate to admit it) I agree with them. I agree with every word they’re saying because the more I try to recall what I’ve done since this year began, the more I don’t feel like I’ve done much of anything at all. And instead of having the cold air of fall to numb my brain so I don’t have to think too long about all the time I’ve wasted (what was I thinking?), all the opportunities I’ve let pass me by (so many and I still can’t understand why...), I’ve got the warm humid air of spring coming through just a week before Thanksgiving to ensure that I feel it all. Each little pang of regret. Each fuzzy memory of an entire year gone - poof - just like that.

I want this warm weather to leave like the leaves on the trees will soon, entirely, so that I can try to pretend that next year things will be different. I’ll take the cold and snow now please, so that I can try to pretend that with another change of the weather (and trust me, it will happen fast) maybe I’ll be different, too.