I like Autumn. I like it because it is a segue; somewhere between was and will. It was warm and it will be cold, but what is it now? Autumn isn’t now. It’s nowhere, and I haven’t been present during this season that I love so much. I’ve been contemplating too much, and now when I descend the steps of my ivy-covered building, the leaves are gone. I don’t know where I’ve been since they gave up their green and became crunchy cobblestones that stick to the cuffs of my pants. Transition is a strange thing when it happens so slowly. Change seems to be crawling quite slowly, almost impossible to witness. Up until now, I thought that I could just bide my time while I wait to get to what is next, but that seems silly and idle and something that I’ve already been doing for far too long. I am looking forward to what will happen next, whatever it may be, it just seems so far away. I’m left in the wake of something fulfilling, waxing elegiac for something that I haven’t even gained to have lost. Odd. I’m MP. I am five feet and eight and a half inches tall and fancy myself artistic. I like picture frames and the poetry of Emily Brontë. I have a purple scarf that I like to wear around my neck and I never spit in public. I have blue eyes, and I can pout spectacularly. I like daisies and paper lanterns. I took ballet lessons for 15 years, and still believe that I can dance. I want to be a rockstar, but for now am content to sing to the shower tiles. I am misunderstood. I aspire to happiness, and haven’t yet decided on a formidable career, although I’m testing the waters. I wear an amber ring on my finger, but only in the winter, and painted my apartment green. I struggle. I pierced my nose as a protest against symmetry when I was a teenager, and will probably many years from now go blind due to the macular degeneration that runs in my family. If I do go blind, I will become a sculptor; but for now and until old age creeps up on me, my eyes are just fine. I have two tattoos that I used to pretend were beautiful birthmarks that I should have been born with, but now I mostly forget that they are there. I have inspiration. I like to play the Moonlight Sonata on the piano when I am angry, and adore the artwork of Carson Ellis. I am unlucky. Pathetic Fallacy always seems to be in accordance with my life, and my favourite season is Indian Summer, even though it is politically incorrect. I like to stretch. I had my first kiss when I was fourteen, and know how to play the clarinet. I have an infectious laugh and keep dried flowers in a vase by my window. I am sensitive and analytical, and I listen to Hayden. I fear loss. I open my eyes underwater and like to paint my toe nails pink. I like to stay up late and wake up early, and my favourite CBC host is Barbara Budd. I like to wear a small ragdoll pinned to my sweater, and listen to acoustic guitars. I want to be remembered. I like to take pictures of chairs people keep in alleys, and like to look at people’s shoes on the subway. I avoid confrontation. I like to pretend that love songs are written about me, and I never put milk on my cereal. I grew up in Acton and I like to write stories. They are not published. I can’t define myself in a paragraph, and I believe that there are things about me that cannot be consigned to words, but nevertheless, I want you to know me. Happy Autumn.