In and Out: September

September felt mixed that year. Skype had stopped being about calling people and had turned into something else. Sauerkraut. Nachos with actual cheese and ground beef, not the half-measures. Someone was watching the new season of Two and a Half Men—it meant something then. Shin Chan in the morning was the right way to start a day. Trampolines. Animals that happened to look like Hitler. Pixel art. Leather jackets. That stretch where you actually finished projects instead of abandoning them halfway. Ayumi Hamasaki. Trees to plant. The crude jokes and constant sexual reference—that was just how we talked. More breasts seemed necessary. Virtual Console. Dreams of becoming your grandfather. The whole mess of it.

But the same month had its poisons. Dog trainers as a concept. The weight of autumn wearing on you. Trolls. Apple fanatics. Plants dying slowly while you forgot about them. RTL television’s relentless cruelty. Good friends suddenly seeming off, becoming people you didn’t recognize. The tinnitus left behind by concerts. Nuclear power. That creeping knowledge that everything ends—not wisdom, just weariness. Showers instead of baths. That thing with your ex nobody wanted to face. The compromises that felt necessary and turned out to be damage.

September didn’t ask for understanding. It just asked if you could tell what was keeping you alive from what was slowly poisoning you.