He leans into life. Even now, even when he's being hunted by shadowy figures, he gapes at the streets of his hometown, he lights up over the knowledge that the universe is listening to him, and continues to plan his grandiose life - as if it is coming true any second now. It's not just about the end goal for him; he wants to come to a place, where he can enjoy every moment of this fleeting life. Where he isn't in a hurry to get home, or in a rush to be alone. Where he isn't the one looking out the window, but enjoys being in the room.
Being gloomy in the fall isn't something new to me. It goes together with parts of me dying as the leaves fall from the trees and their branches become bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But even surrounded with all this decay, I know that there will always be the spring, as I know the river will flow again after it is frozen. And I am quite certain this is not the end of me. Not like this. Not from a cascade of impulsive decision. I am more than that. My story deserves more.
