I’d like to live in perpetual autumn.
When the sky is so blue you are certain that it simply must go on forever. And the clouds that roll across it are herds of the whitest sheep that eyes have ever seen, on the move to greener pastures and away from the coming months.
I’d like to live under the trees that shed their coats to match the season, and listen always to the sound of the leaves dancing to the tune of the bitter wind along the empty street.
I’d like to live always while it is warm in the sun patches that slant in through the window panes and wash across my floor on Sunday afternoons, and while it is just cold enough to be happy.
I’d like to live eternally where the expectation of something new and different hangs in the air, like cobwebs that you only notice once they cling to your skin: where the very world is on a precipice above something terribly exciting.
I’d like to live standing on my toes in that moment before the jump and plummet: arms flung out and eyes closed, before decision and knowing, in that moment where everything is beautifully uncertain. In that moment where infinity and possibility are within human grasp.
I’d like to live in perpetual autumn.
