I used to like autumn. I used to love it, it was my favourite season. I used to like the sad atmosphere because its contrast with my dreams would deepen their meaning. Somehow the orange and crimson shower was for me a symbol of hope.
In late august I imagined myself like the last man on earth, triumphantly walking on the dead bodies of leaves, smiling, carrying the seed of love in my chest, ready to burst out and blossom. Passing by like I didn't hear the rustle of these draft paintings which nature decided to throw away, distracted by the sap whispering underneath the tree barks. Not saddened by the wrinkled and empty faces of trunks, reading behind their masks met to chase away lovers and let them rest. I could hear life running through the thin, shimmering twigs.
In early october I used to imagine myself over the years standing at the window and drinking tea with HER, counting the rain drops hitting the glass and kissing seemingly careless, secretly proud of our defiance. The summer was long dead and buried, carrying with it in the grave so many shallow love stories. And yet, You and I would stand there, holding our hands smelling like oranges.
Somewhere around november I used to imagine our children dressed for Halloween, eating pumpkin pie and fighting with candies. Their innocent faces dirty of chocolate. I used to imagine us watching them in amusement. Later on, the night would watch us standing on the couch in front of the fire place, drinking mulled wine, telling stories and falling asleep in each others' arms.
But I had lost this. This vision had been stolen from me. I began to see autumn as a time of death, the only vision I refused to accept as a child. The news of its approach made me panic. The dying leaves made me feel lost, insignificant, abandoned, forgotten.
and then I met you.
by him.
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