Autumn

“Itt van az ősz, itt van újra”. I wonder if there’s any way of escaping the clichés, the allegories and the synonyms for autumn. Because there’s death, change, slowly slipping away written everywhere where there’s a mention of autumn. I think it’s simply beauty. This weekend had everything that autumn can encompass. There were the trees that have begun to dress up in a million coloured dresses. There were the cemeteries that flickered until the eye could see, warming the lost souls and reminding the living of the imminent end. Things faded away, slipped away, leaves fell, people dead, flowers frozen, candles burnt. But this weekend could not have been more beautiful.

Irony lurks at every street corner. Here I am talking about change, about things ending or moulding into something else and time yet again fails me. Time that should move in a linear matter seems to me to be an escalator that moves in the opposite direction to how I want to go. The ultimate test. So I sit and scribble any old thing that comes to my head. Sometimes with structure, but most of the time, just carelessly slipping out and channelling down my fingers into the keys on the keyboard. The simple juxtaposition of well-chosen words impresses people. Pieces of me get published in the most unexpected places. Then comes the subject of such writings: people, places, feelings, time and the past.

It seems very fitting that the autumn should represent letting go and let go I must. There is only one thing I have not been able to fully let go of and that’s love. Not love the romantic notion, not love embodied by another human being, but love that binds me eternally to time. Love that sees no reason for mercy and chains me to a path that twirls round and round towards the place it started from. Love that is no longer love, but a superior state of anxiety firmly establishing a choking grip on my soul. Now this, I must let go of. This I must not let creep back into my life. And come autumn and come cleansing. Ironically, the one that past writings have been about can no longer be reached. Time, love and anger have joint forces to shut down the only vessel that breathed simply to hurt me, to haunt me, to torture me. But now it’s all gone. Even if I wanted to – and humans have a tendency to want to rip old wounds open just to feel the pain and mask in the glory of living- I could not find the road back to self destruction: for he is gone and I am free.

Life slips out of nature; leaves cover the sidewalks and hide enormous deadly wells for us to fall into. But the beauty of it all maybe overrides the evil, the sorrowful and the lost.