These autumn nights are merciless, they come so suddenly and then stay stuck, stuck to one's skin, soul, eyes. They seem limpid to begin with, at times serene, benign, easy to have, easy to live with, weightless. Then they spread their net, their long arms and start scratching, leaving livid marks on oneself, but they are all inside, these marks, these fears, these nights.
But what are these nights actually? Why should I even think to think about these things? Is it the melancholy of loneliness or the acid taste of darkness? Where do such heartaches come from? Why are just a few people prone to such disasters or do we misunderstand the geography and the climate of our inner hearts? Do innermost hearts have a different weather?
I believed once that loneliness and autumn are good for one's soul, they bring colour, albeit a different colour, like they do it to leaves, which are lying scattered everywhere in the courtyard outside my window. Such colour, such bleeding. The trees are slightly morose, the leaves are aching, some are crimson, the neighbour's wall is on fire. Other leaves are slightly more fortunate but they too will fall, turn hectic and die and then the bare colour of winter, which is transparent and white, sullen and heavy will invade everything.
But I digress. I was talking about nights, these slightly cold nights, when getting up in the morning is a disaster. I would just lie down, next to my fictitious cat, and would want to look at my pale hands as night lifts its cover and a new autumn day spreads its blue. It is the silence of these nights that halts poetry. Even music, of whatever colour pales and whimpers as these nights blur fantasy into reality and dissolve desire into memory.
I have always loved autumn, a particular autumn, in that garden, under a magnolia, my feet soaking in a struggling sun, a book, a poem and a dream in my arms. But then it brought nights of love, of colour and joy and sun and peace. Now it gives silence, shadows on walls and longing for poetry.