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Our seasons

Modifié le : 2019/07/20

Of course, autumn inspires the poet. It is a sweet sea­son, herald­ing the bit­ter­ness of win­ter, but, with good weath­er help­ing, we are not yet con­cerned about it. The weath­er is fine, death is there to dif­fuse per­fumes of appease­ment, the air is warm, the light com­press­es the shad­ows, skil­ful­ly mix­ing the col­ors. Every­thing is in its place, in the order of things. You feel almost eternal.

We all know that this does not last. Already at the begin­ning of Sep­tem­ber, we were plunged into an ear­ly cold. It did­n’t take much longer for the lungs to cough, the noses to run and the air con­di­tion­ing sys­tems in the build­ings to derail, blow­ing some­times hot and some­times cold. Make no mis­take, the sea­sons are mov­ing for­ward, it’s inevitable, it’s like the ocean, every­thing is stronger than us.

If I stop for a moment and, from the very end of my anten­nae, try to find out where I am in the day of my life, maybe I could believe that I am liv­ing my fall. After all, my mind seems to be endowed with beau­ti­ful light. I have lived long enough to be able to prop­er­ly mix the wis­dom of it all. And I am con­vinced that a young adult will per­ceive me as a shad­ow mak­er. I could con­clude that my sum­mer is over. My joints start to stiff­en, I pre­fer slow ges­tures, slack emo­tions to stormy storms or too extrav­a­gant dances.

On the oth­er hand, I am very bad­ly placed, thus at the cen­ter of my exis­tence, to know its depar­ture or pur­pose. It is only when we die that we can know what sea­sons we will have gone through. And even then, we won’t have time to notice. If I am like my mater­nal grand­moth­er, I am only in the sum­mer of my life. But if tomor­row, I get caught in a car, you could say that I was already in my win­ter. It takes a cer­tain courage to make fun of it or to care about it. I think most peo­ple don’t do that. They switch to one side or the oth­er. I am the first to do so when, for exam­ple, I spend my whole day cod­ing web pages that have noth­ing to do with my exis­ten­tial ques­tions or when, fail­ing to make my bud­get, I spend a lot of time writ­ing these lines (not to men­tion the usu­al chores to accom­plish gro­ceries, clean­ing, ren­o­va­tions to complete).

Does peace real­ly exist in our minds ? Are we these hur­ri­canes that noth­ing can tame ? How to learn from the pass­ing sea­sons ? Shut up, because there are no answers ? Or to say, because mem­o­ry is so friv­o­lous ? To walk, in any case, because doing noth­ing any­more is a guar­an­teed winter.

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