There’s a lot been written and said about peoples’ relationship with the past. How we romanticize our memories the second they’re in the rear view. How it’s so easy to find meanings amongst the chaos that the present really is when it’s but momentarily past. But I think many of us, myself included, are drawn to romantic ideals for our futures. Stories we tell ourselves that hurt as much as they excite because of their absolute uncertainty: they would be perfect we think, but they may never come to pass. I know I am in the summer of my life now, though sometimes I feel old. Everything around me still pulses so passionately, days and years still seem to stretch endlessly ahead. Potential and freedom flow through my fingers and around my body like clear suburban pool water, heated to perfection by a sun-filled afternoon. Something in me longs for autumn, for the little death, the necessary prelude to rebirth, the change. You can’t move the seasons, can’t shake a summer tree hard enough that it’s let’s go of it’s leaves. The seasons move you. I’m waiting. It’s still 80 degrees here and palm trees don’t change color the ways that the oaks do. I want to settle into coffee by a frosted window but there’s still a freezer full of popsicles to eat. Fall enchants me, pulls me towards and through it, convincing me I no longer need those sweet summer flowers.
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