"Seasons of mists and mellow fruitfulness". The poem holds within itself the seeds of it's own dissolution. The phrase, "seeds of dissolution," is already ironic because it is seeds that give life and grow but in this case, act instead as an agent of destruction. Similarly, Keat's "To Autumn" is laden with images antithetical to the superabundance of sensation within the poem. "And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;/ To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells." We remark the richness of the images. What do we think when we see the words "swell" and "plump"? We think of fruits stretched to bursting, voluptuous, and round: the gourd quivering in the air, hanging from its drooping vine, full and heavy, eager to be picked before it splatters on the ground beneath. And yet, we are constantly reminded of death. The second stanza mixes in the "cyder-press," and the "winnowing wind." The maturing of apples means that it is time for them to go through the "cyder-press" and be turned into cider, or apple juice. And it is the maturation of the wheat that enables the harvest. The wind blows through the fields of grain and winnows/ separates heavy heads of ripe wheat from the chaff. The heavier kernels fall to the ground and are then harvested. What then are the implications of these ideas of ripeness and death? Perhaps Keats is suggesting that to embrace the fullness of life, mortality and death must be embraced. The maturing of fruit is only useful if it can be crushed and turned into cider. The grains of wheat must fall dead to the ground to be harvested and baked into bread. Autumn, as is mentioned in the third stanza, must give way to winter (barren-ness) before spring (growth) can come. Our awareness of life's lavish wealth is heightened only by it's proximity to notions of death.

The Romantics come at a time when 1. It is autumn, and 2. I am facing an autumnal crisis of sorts. September the Twentieth, Saturday. It is autumn in the Northern Hemisphere, whilst I remain in the south. It is raining now. I hear the drip-drop-drabbing of water trickling down pipes and then the roar of the thunder in the background. My father comes to me bearing a plate of grilled bananas. "Your mummy's favourite food," he says, "come try," so we do. The bananas have mellowed in their sweetness. They are hot. I put a portion in my mouth and feel a thin, crackly, caramelised layer where the fruit met the grill, before it shifts under my teeth and gives way to the sour, sweet tang of soft pulp. Gooey and delicious. Contentment.

September the Nineteenth, Friday, yesterday. I walked off the bus in a bad mood, having been surrounded by too many strangers, too close for comfort. And then the world was all of a sudden, startlingly, vividly clear. I paused for a moment on the pavement, looked around me and wondered, "what's the point?" I looked at the plants on my right in neat orderly rows, and asked, "what's the point?" I looked at the cars swishing past me on my left and asked, "what's the point?" I saw the great brick buildings ahead of me, and the people waiting in masses for another crowded bus and asked, "what's the point?"

But then I knew. I looked at the plants again, and thought anew, they are here in their neat, man-made, orderly rows because they are aesthetically pleasing. I looked at the cars and thought, "they are in cars because buses are horrid, plus there's aircon." I looked at the brick buildings ahead of me and thought, "that is my destination in front of me, I need the building to hold my class." I looked at the crowd and thought, "they're probably all late for class and the bus is the fastest way to get there." And then all the world was alright again because it was reasonable.

4pm. The last class of the day ended and I was alone and alone and alone. I wanted, no I needed to talk to someone, but I couldn't bring myself to. I went to the canteen where the people were and sat alone with my thoughts that were crazy with running and tired and beleaguered and thoughts of the future and the overall sense of disorder that I knew I was going to be faced with during recess week. I was down in the dumps, but nothing nothing nothing, my thoughts I myself could not comprehend. I was strangely dissatisfied and full of an emotion whose name eluded me.

"And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!	75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?	80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,	85
And in short, I was afraid. "

"And in short, I was afraid." And so I followed them away from the moment, the place in which I known that moment of discontent. I followed them to their rooms and sat on the floor and had chocolate cake, and tasted the sweet milkiness of thick chocolate mousse and the cake crumbling away as dry dust, and I was appeased. I read the poetry on her wall: the Mad Girl's Love Song, Dark Sonnet. I sat on the floor and they threw puns and pillows at each other. She lay on her bed and fell asleep. He read poetry aloud, and we sat and simmered in feeling. "And he gave himself an A/ and a slash on each damned wrist/ And he hung it on the bathroom door,/ because this time he didn't think/ he could reach the kitchen. Absolutely nothing." "It's sad." "It's sad." "I took it off my poetry wall."

And then we trooped off to the other end of campus. "I'm planning to create a card company with tree puns, like 'Don't be beechy.'" "Ooh and are you oak-kay." "I want to have an image of two palm trees smacking into each other. The caption, 'High-Five.'" "Hey, from that angle they look like they're holding hands... wait for it." And then a squirrel chittered loudly at us and disappeared behind a tree. I told my mum and sister about the demon squirrel and they said "maybe the squirrel thought you were a couple of nuts." Then they laughed hysterically.

By the end of mass (for mass was our destination) I was distraught. My cup runneth over; "Lord, when your glory appears, my joy will be full" but God I feel too much. I feel like nothing I do will ever be good enough or helpful enough, I cannot do anything Lord, I am helpless. 

"How's school? Babe, are you okay?" "No, I need a hug." "If you need to talk, I'm here." "Yes please." But then tears came and they wouldn't stop when I tried to speak. They hugged me and stood by me and let me cry all over them even if they might not have understood what was happening, and I was grateful and thankful and feeling half-silly and trying to laugh it off because I couldn't remain in my sadness. Seasons of mists and mellow fruitfulness. Death was approaching and I couldn't talk about it because I feared jinxing him. "He's a bit bloated," my mother said, "they said when old folks reach that stage, it means they're going to die. It happened to grandma." The eternal Footman snickered but I couldn't bring myself to visit him because I was afraid. I wasn't afraid of death, I was afraid of the snicker, the inability to say anything useful or cheering. I wanted to tiptoe around the issue and scream at my utter uselessness. I feared the future of regret, of grief, and so I cried. And I loved them, for being with me in my loneliness and the warm reassuring hugs, I loved them because I didn't have to hide or do any explaining and they were alright with that. And I praise God for the friends who laughed with me and held me and loved me back when the emotions I had held in check for so long came out.

And that was my Friday.