In my head there is a room I keep for just these occasions. The room has blue walls in a perfect shade of reflective relaxation. It’s not quite the dark of night sky, but neither is it the uneven indigo of my teenage bedroom. The shade of color does not attract attention until one thinks of it after, in awe of how perfect it was to be so flawlessly, seamlessly a part of the room, a piece that could as well function as the whole. The furnishings are as thoughtlessly perfect, and everything is soft; the rugs, the pillows, the throws, all made for lounging in every position. The only true furniture is a full bookshelf taking up a wall. In front of it there is a heavy curtain softening the hard lines of literature from first view, always available, but never demanding.
The air is cool on one's skin. In no position would one get too warm. The air circulates and it is the honest coolness of eve, and fall, and death that gives it a cool but not cold touch. This is a gentle cool, not the fallacy of artificial conditioning. It always smells crisply of eucalyptus, never overwhelming, but noticeable, and it adds to the feeling of cool. There are two big bay windows with ledges wide and soft enough for sitting along the wall opposite the bookshelf. Here too there are heavy curtains, so the windows may be concealed to a small private chamber themselves, or so that one may relax, forgetting the outside world is even there. It is lit by a soft glowing white light that one would never identify the source of. Outside it is autumn, in a thick wood with mist rising from a nearby body of water and surrounding the windows with a cool damp breath. It is the season of writing outside this room, and I go here to create so that others may die. I write and create, so the cycle may move and others may cease to write and create. In the same way they have come to their own rooms, in their own seasons, to write and create so that I may move into the mist.
And lay down.
And die.
